Pipe not a pipe, angel not an angel.

Maybe snipers. Shovels aloft in the crowd.

Protesters close ranks, close ranks:

the tighter the better not to let

manic soldiers mow bodies down

with their army-issue trucks.

By the time the journalists arrive

there is red on the tires. The dead

want to abandon their graves. 30 years ago

we thought we were done. What kind of shit

is that formaldehyde, and what have they

buried in stealth? Wax mannikin, effigy

crawling with interior worms. Its widow

makes a scene, plastering the glass

with kisses. Drones circle overhead.

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