Like one lone goose feather, inanimate, though remnant of the whole.
A slotted.spoon.sea and waterlogged wind land us on unchosen.muddied.shores
No chance to bead off time nor steal more soil,
we cincture like motorless boats against booted men,
The things we didn’t ask for outlasting the songs of what we did.

We sonicate right reciprocity with the treble of wrong immediacy,
losing our 50.million.year elders
to the bargain.basement.bulk swipes at suddenly.rhubarbed.plums.
The filamented gold reams of all that is untended to, slipping fatally through,
Bigger than two hemispheres are four hollow chambers and two atria,
This, the domain where action stems fistless first and loudly from.
The things we didn’t ask for outlasting the songs of what we did.

These are the bench warrants in our names,
filed silently in dropped flight by the voiceless hives
of our climate.denying.spite.
When the next come to decipher our petroglyphs,
will they decide that we simply adored wreckage?
The things we didn’t ask for outlasting the songs of what we did.

We are remnant leathers,
old skin stretched over hollow drums,
like hides hinting at a once.whole.being,
or a tiny last.light.feather wheedling her perilous way
back to the unplucking of her once.whole.wing.

We are small choices away from the ashen Pompeii drang
of becoming natures next blight and greatest of fossil fuels.
Answering order with only disorder,
we are bones that bury selves,
botoxed and tanned bipeds, opposably-thumbed, but brain dead.
The things we didn’t ask for outlasting the songs of what we did.

When the next come to decipher our petroglyphs,
will they decide that we simply adored wreckage?

I have nothing to prove upon this land except that she stay here longer than I.