“Indictment Without Subject”
Ann Lauterbach

From the bourgeoisie tribe an aspect of looking.
The near settles in.
The near is rejected by the bourgeoisie tribe.
The bourgeoisie tribe
settles among its kinsmen
and adds to itself.

It watched the wasp struggle in bleach.
It erects implausible glass.
It brings into view the hanging man.
It enjoys the spectacle.
It copies out the printed day.

The bourgeoisie tribe makes babies.
The babies cry I want.
The babies cry more.
This is how it learns to count.

The ropes are already in the fire.
The despot has been abased.
The shelter has been committed to film.
Weathers have reduced the population of herring.
Statements are made from
statements that have been made.
It, the tribe, is small among acts,
invisible from the erased horizon.
The sky is purring, engorged.
Steel has been seen to melt.
Steel with the strength of mutants and despots
has been seen to melt.
The articulating angel mauls the insentient thing.
The thing, a fiasco of nearness, erupts.
It seems to know fire; it seems to collapse
into whatever is without conversion,
no hand nor orifice, no babble, no touch.
It takes its place outside of the near.
The near comes on in, dragging a map.