There were eggs glued in mucous
to the underside of gold leaves.
You read us and we grew to a bursting
in a land of plenty. Our yolks yoked to you.
Our sweat crusted lips. Our thirst
to please you. A hunger to please you.
A knife for America to be us
in a golden beehive.
Behave the surgeon's hand -
the light of the blade to cut us, the salted angels,
from a burning tree.
Believe escape is the wind and a twig dipped in your eye.