It gets tiresome,
explaining how we
got the grand

pianos into the trees,
how we learned chromatic
scales and savored grace

notes before breakfast,
at the same time
we did drills

in a few other
tongues, including
your own. And yet,

you insist your
benevolence gave birth
to us in little beakers:

so malleable for packing
into crates, shipments for
the empire’s vast network.


In response to Via Negativa: Anthropocene.

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