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.