July in Washington
The stiff spokes of this wheel
touch the sore spots of the earth.
On the Potomac, swan-white
power launches keep breasting the sulphurous wave.
Otters slide and dive and slick back their hair,
raccoons clean their meat in the creek.
On the circles, green statues ride like South American
liberators above the breeding vegetation —
prongs and spearheads of some equatorial
backland that will inherit the globe.
The elect, the elected... they come here bright as dimes,
and die dishevelled and soft.