Poem #80

A wrench at a corpse of catabolic collapse (a dream of a pire, once a Capitalist ideal)…

for John Michael Greer

A town was log.
Smoldered and simmered its wood.
Burnt to an ember, tiny and orange,
and the hot chip of bark
sputtered out in a gray fleck.

A wrench (as menial as a twist on a pepper-quern)
was a statue, historic and still,
not carved, not a quarried crag,
but rock on a hillside;

without words, without songs;
without sport, without dance;
without love…

Waiting to turn,
waiting to grind the hips,
waiting at the table of labor
once more.

19 May 2014
Revised 3 November 2016

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