Empty as a sundial.
A square of skin turns outward, a skiff of salt blows neatly
to the corners.
The spears of iris are spoiled, under it, as drunks.

But a ceiling is puncturable as a drumhead. For what could
break through: America, a leg: the lash of swimmers.

A ceiling looks believable. But it breathes-tight as heaven's
political skin: as redoubtable, as aquarian.

The ceiling must keep, must be as papal as Latin.
We two are a live nation under a jar lid,
ordered under the great press, dry as grains.