do you clap when it arrives in crumpled
corrugated cardboard dropped on the steps
of your demand and expectation—me?
I long to hear the soft song of
the box cutter the little sigh
as light uncovers the gifts of darkness
but enough of my many weaknesses
let’s upgrade our kitchens hats and bookshelves
lounge in the recycled air gulp supplements
unthinking of the debt and folks living
in fire and try to laugh since we never
got the hang of writing protest songs
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
other animals 