The world begins
and so on. God creates physics
or maybe geometry. Later the inventor invents
the inventor,
and what is left?
The sparrow remains the sparrow
in flight, on branch, under sky.
There is no persuasion, no convincing,
only your solipsism, the condition
of our generation.
Build a city on water and it will sink. segue
Build a boat on land and it will stay.
There are three, maybe four people
I can really stand. Even time
in its proceeding recklessness
becomes predictable; the routine,
mundane--meals, books, sex,
each reincarnated leaf, the rotting compost
pile you plan on spreading in the garden
next year.
We begin courting our limitations, understanding
the burden language carries,
to at once represent the smallness of the universe
and the largeness of perspective.
Nostalgia means too much
to be important here,
where the animals drown,
where you quietly wade.
In your defense
a year passes quickly
and no one believes in empathy
anymore.
They tell me to kill.
I do what I am told.
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Submission Name: from here, the mausoleum
