Florida hat band

when speaking of fronts,
the back must follow
as would a shadow after
a figure in the full brunt
of noon day glare,
pressed together and
poetically obvious to
an eye that registers
each straight line
and ordered fold of evey
woven thing in the vacinity,

in between
only bloodlines
and tissue wrapped
around a matrix of bone,
a unity of
all things happening at once
for the good reasons
writ on chalk boards
in lecture halls,
phenomena not
stopping for slide shows,

a society of immense, overlayed functions
that sustain the apparatus
of the gesture that attempts to
soften the gaze that freezes ambition,
makes desire a dead, cracking flower,
the mouth a riot of
twitches that might
be words had
not so much depended
on the red wheel barrow
glazed with rain water
by chickens gone
platinum in the
depths of the Big City,

large traffic
stops the two sides
of street from meeting
in combat,
and Democracy
sweats like a Florida hat band.