From the ground, I reach up to the sound of women clapping;
It’s deafening—they mark themselves well.
—Pyramids placed over
Complex thought, meant to guide desperate glances my way—
The dirt soaked up the worst of it: the worst to happen to me lately:
I’m building complex pyramids to it—
Virtuoso works of design and
Labor, to be baffled over for years to
—Placed in the middle of nowhere, I’ll be buried near the bottom.
I’ll be waiting—patiently—for the clapping