POLPO

A poem

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Same old sound
rattling,
flickering’s for another day.
Ashes to ashes,
calloused hands in the grass —
I’ve long forgotten
what it feels like to be outside.

Give me a list:
all the meanings of tree,
every shape of rain,
all the names of you.

I recount the sun to the window,
flickering now,
a glow that rises in the dark —
a scent that pushes you away.

Still, there’s wind
in this country that has no taste,
in this vast,
endless space,
where countless times
we’ve lost to nature.

Monstrous,
big,
beautiful —
the revenge of the illiterate genius,
the trans-evolution of something superior.

I’ll tell it:
I don’t deserve it,
but we all do.
It’s not fair,
it’s dark,
& it’s our time to be devoured.

A rattle.
No time to call ships or crafts,
barely time to pray —
and we’re prey.
What goes around may
come around.

Electricity,
a voice:
we’ve played a losing game.