All that's left is the shroud
the back wings. Roaches
scurrying in the kitchen. There’s no
greater threat than this time at hand.
Drunken cackles from the street. Still damp
from 4 AM rain.
I missed the instructions for this part. The trap.
The deflate of dream. Utopia was always
supposed to be right at hand. Right and left.
Any which way we’d make of it.
Marine layer
won’t budge for the rumble under our feet. Sky
tears open in the north. Sirens
on high. A small pool forms
in the buckle of asphalt.
In its gentle tremble
the reflection of the grey
white mass overhead
with a perfect seam of blue.
The rift where
the dead speak
how-tos.
I like the line about utopia being right at hand. I could see both ways. I personally get the feeling that humans are progressing towards a better state, not utopia. But I recently heard a talk and the historian questioned Steven Pinker's ideas about humans becoming less violent. This narrator clearly sees things getting worse...
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