The Pure Expression of History as the Filmography of Sofia Coppola

Upon the scaffold, Louis says he'll pray,
then: nothing much.  A drumroll please.  A bird
that's passing overhead the human herd
dips its head; disgusted, looks away;
pities creatures cursed to sing with words.
A latch released, a whir, a thump, the gray
stones of the plaza stained, a single ray
of sunlight hits the surging crowd, the murd-
ered body twitches one last time, then rests;
a pundit goes on CNN and claims
to have seen it coming months before it came,
although, he says, he's not sure of its aims,
and thinks the movement needs a better name,
a list, at least, from which to choose the best.