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.