crickets chirp in
crooked
yellow lines. here,
there are
spaces
between the
foxes. they creep, with
curious
shadowbellied footsteps,
gasping at the
sight of
nature shuffled with the
sinking of the moon.
sirens sing to the gridlines
locked in slow
progress and
shifting with the weight of
wheels; they are hurried insomniacs
buzzing in spotted
shades of light.
where are my hands?
clawing at the sand and rocks
you once called ebb
and
flow,
turning overandover in discomfort.
everything has a halo above this
body
(smokestacks and spiderwebs), the
taste of this constructed
industriality. slowly,
hundreds of elderly rooted arms
reach out with
leafwithered fingers from barksoaked
spines
in a symphony movement
to suffocate the steel and collapse
an empire
until all you can see
is ivy.