The Bronze Age
Every day absorbed in tupperware plastic grows satisfactorily along cellular strata, trees sniffing a wind’s trace, the boat’s bob on specific ripples peeled off distant undersea indecisions. This is what we came for, excused from our tasks by some emergent tumult, a lazy earth not willing to meet the word “morning,” not knowing what to do about birdsong, not compliant with a calendar’s grammar, and not for nothing, but not for everything save a sentence to dig a root to. Scissors we made from a flag’s colorway, cave painting the sitcoms while we take a data hit straight into the mainline. Should all of this be recorded in a faithful fashion, today is the sliver you jimmy from under the nail, pus flowing to fill the vacuous cavity of how much I miss the scent or your skin, or the scope of another unspoken nest of silent strands, hopeless knots, the eye pressed against the microscope’s glass.