Where, mama, is the stage?   
Here. 
On this ground      Beneath 
overpass   
here where smooth 
cars always over   
before prayer,
even   
Round steel bodies   
This is your theatre.   
I did not know your father.   
One night   So black that even     memory 
refused it -   Doves might know.   You do not, mild usurper.   
Nurse 
your wild creatures   Vroom, vroom,
Crunch; caw caw   
nailed, from behind,  
the poor does   
not know the propriety of  
direction. Only doves' feathers can, 
mirrors, milk meat stockings 
portent
caw, caw,