A race to the bottom of a pond
can never last this long
without another way to breath.
The plastic bag is caught between
some branches by the window,
and we all know that it’s there because of us.
We can’t ignore the rust that’s building up along
the seems in all our giant robot guardians,
so maybe the time has come to be here
for ourselves.

Disorganized crowds rail against organized
factions of shanghaied neighbors held down
by their circumstantial pain. There is no rain
that could delay this final round and it is played
without the lights on just the lightning when
it strikes to show the way.
Cold metal on the hands withdrawing stop signs
from the street as a continual improvement
to the intersection. Now clocks are only
punched with solid fists that never miss
or know the time when someone’s asking
them to give it.

You’re going to love it,
all those worst case dumb scenarios
you’re afraid of like a stone face
with an oddly sinful stare,
and they don’t care if it is true or not because
it’s what they want to see and they have found it,
and I have had it with that line of broken
thinking that has never been enough
to get it right. Old architecture will come back
and there will be grocery stores in heaven
because we’ve always made a point
of wasting time and cash on things
we do not need.

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