12 September 2017

Postcard 102

Our shadows grow longer though we remain.
To what end do we near?
Look at all our footprints out on the dunes,
a thousand soft crescents cut, the wind occludes.

We, side by side, tingle-fingered, hawker-caught.
We caravaners, hundred dollar ad hoc camp-siters,
commemorative t-shirted and fifty dollar fire-wooded.
We like to pretend that we are different here.

And even step-outsided, pause at worked,
live stream screen gathered, like to believe
that now we are released of fear.
Imagine that -- marvel released of fear.

That looming moon is just a roving stone.
That blinking oculus is just the shadowed sun.
But then when rage spills out into the streets, what or who presides?
When our mighty broad laned cities tremble and slide into the sea,
                                                          just what is pulling at the tides?

The air is odd, the sky is orange and when the sun
-- our light, our hum, our heat -- is finally obscured, it is not the moon,
but by the smoke of all our forests dry on fire.
There is no armageddonal climax, no horrible relief, no hands of god.

The sun returns unchanged in parallax.
The days the fear, anxiety in unending flux.
Without crescendo, we should marvel with fear and awe
that it is all more than just a single cosmic fuck.

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