so yeah a bright proleptic rose is spinning
slow above my head portending death
but in a hot way. yes the water ripples
long before the stone falls in; the poet
wanes; a dozen goofy cops all run
in single file after some poor guy
who ain’t done shit and don’t know shit until
the sergeant trips and takes a stake straight through
the temple—then we see the classic pile
up. a lot of blood. look no one knows
what’s gonna happen, bitch. goddamn.
Steele is a communist poet.