that sentimental day we recite our atrocities a la mode
which rhymed at the time though not in retrospect


they say it may never be untied though
will serve as a warning to newcomers
peddling some dewey gospel


the car wouldn’t start as we had not
calculated for the variance in the
new gravity and its effect on the ancient
components that likely will take


weeks to fabricate but if you’re still with
me we can descend into the canyon
and investigate the rumors
of this miraculous vegetable


like drawing a hand with the hand that’s drawing the hand

There’s this river underground

the birds sing of it as though

it were a gem as though a gem


we’re something they had interest in

though perhaps my translators

but no don’t let me blame them


this river at times packed

with grey slush moving fast

enough that the fish wish they


had eyes but here on the lost

real estate development the

philosophers have left


with the fabled food trucks

that won’t return

those anthologized ones could sing

a line like beaten gold and decree

the world this way or that for time


present and time to come but now

we face exile if we fail to laugh

at those who reach deep into earth


and instead must waste so much

pixelated paper for no

more than a productive cough


our hands are too weak for oars our

feet too tired to climb the hill

and report on the clean air so


we ask the wrong question now that

the mountains have lost their last green

spirits but we have no one


no priest to pronounce the signs singing

from the steaming liver—but no—let’s not

soil this by dressing up in a song long gone


one day the animals that remain may

gather to snort and stamp a sweeter

melody in air free from our cardboard