Batteries,
yellow trucks hauling garbage,
ampicillin, napalm.
These too will be
replaced by the not-yet-imagined.
The engines of diesel
will silence,
joining the engines of steam,
the brayings of mule.
And still the poetry of ancient Sumeria
will be understood with ease—
humiliation,
loss,
ambition,
the cutting down of the tallest cedar—
and Beowulf’s verdict yet hold:
Technologies alter.
Heaven swallows the smoke.
Whispering at night, I think I hear my mother’s voice: did I turn off the stove? No not this but did you plant the tulips over my grave? No, not this, not this—my ...
He was bending her over a table then he had to write something down about airplanes. Her own compliant demesne was full of leopards, partly accounting for their ...
They say so much sky in her chest addicted her. They claim, with inappropriate laughter, she requested to be put in a bird house, refusing to believe in the quiet. Hers ...
