Bulldozer war homes

by Tom Pescatore

Her castle is a shadow

puppet's lair built deep into

the gold damp mountains

under the crystal sidewalk

stairs—it's down south,

ancient president—dead

society—fitted beards;

It's a chin up kinda place

at the end of ended streets

a make believe cauldron

beneath wronged stars—mis­taken

constellations—scattered maps—

it's below the sea-level line

an anachronism 4.6 billion times—

it's a home with bladed grass

and circus traps—

it ain't far off the armada's path—