What made wings into arms?
Not to anticipate actual birds
inhabiting the bird-angles
of the dynamic chariot of the future;
flowers of rust paint the rippling
calves of the Atlas of tomorrow—
striations frame the real still blood
of anticipation, now long lost;
how the unseen will kick balls
around the reflecting pools
as the empty lightning cracks
rock bottom.
Ice cream trucks
tinkle above the time capsule & remain,
unironically, the same
just like today is
the same as yesterday.
Concentric rings above
the forgotten amphitheater, songs
in the wrong tongue for some,
but songs nevertheless rebound
around the disintegrating saucer,
tear-stains of the moldy gods,
the great steel shoulders
of industry burrowed through
by minutes & air & noisy shadows—
what holds the torch high above
the muddy fields will burn
down to the knuckles & the body
itself will ignite, an alien sun in the sky
above the fields
you
will never know.
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