Oh, Saigon secondary power lines.

You weave unsafe black knots

about an unsafe black heart,

vein your way

by the hundreds

and strangle a pole,

artery out into the city

(loud, local markets where the sword shops never open)

(recreational honking)

(flooded streets),

and capillary through photoshopped rice fields

where water buffalo hide up to their

wet,

slow,

sad brown eyes

in the mud.