I am the bones whitewashed in the sun,
the red-blooded ink of an Old World
visa faded, crumbled into careless history.
I am the picket fence I made others paint,
dividing lands and neighbors, always
taking the bigger half for myself.
I am the fine print,
the fountain sign,
and the wall.
I am the false hope in a harbor,
the false memory of glory on a hill
you sent your children to die on.
Tonight, I am the story you tell yourself
before you kiss your gun goodnight.