Our serrated landscape
so full of digits:
dial, keloid, data, roseate.
If trees are still ‘in’
we can thumb
through not click-through.
Books are so over
though. All those chyrons
for The End. Tomorrow’s
programming is surely lethal.
We are hanging on by a high
thread count, glass
stemware of the old regime.
A room of Vrooms.
Let’s hope we’re perennial.
We are woodcuts on
Marimekko’s sarong.
Ramulose as a library.
City trees still obscure teens,
futons and jack-offs. Shade
the elderly and their fusilli.
Can we join them?
Children steal adult’s adulthood.
Adults steal one another.
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