The body tries to push

salt & sugar out the window,

the morning bread, the evening

grain. It wishes it were a silver

silo, a bottle of sweet milk

tapered at the top; a hangar

full of humming helicopters

ready to fly out over fields

of flowering weeds, not corn

or soybeans or profit. Its dreams

are sleek & young & fit into

folded paper boats & duck eggs

simmering quietly on the stove.

It craves the marrow in the bones,

the fat that was promised by

the future. It listens to the radio,

its news of guns, broken machinery,

animals dying. In one story, park

rangers use neutered Judas

goats to lure the rest of the herd

out into the open: then they’re

picked clean with rifles. For reward,

the Judas goats get to spend

the rest of their lives on the island,

trimming the grass as they go.


In response to Via Negativa: End times poet .

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