I was assistant to his
assistant and we were
rented out to temps.

Under the palms
of perpetual summer:
volleyballers and the topless

towers of another
pop-up city.
Factories tied to a novel

horizon, third place getters
East and North.

When the Martians land

it won’t matter
if you’re boring.
There’s an A-side

and the language we fall into—
for which we keep
rewinding.

Over the clatter of dishes
you catch a hook
in its dissolving:

the cool green
of money
lisping.