The collective
looks seasick,
the whole place
has gone clammy—
but still,
each stubborn, woozy,
and translucent
individual—keeps
gratuitously steering,
rudderless and rudely,
with no map
or compass—toward
one of several million
disparate
back-alley addresses—each one
squinting ineffectually
through a fog
of rank patriotism
and exclaiming—but see?
all the rats
are still here,
so—the ship
can't be
sinking.
