The days feel like we’re looking at

the same sculpture over and over

but with a slight pivot of the plinth

so that the view isn’t quite the same

but the body remains unmoved.

The chisel marks are a wonder but

it’s sad and cold and very still.

It’s mid-January at world’s end 

and they’re making milk out of everything: 

goats, pencils, and non-ironic GPS. 

Wild boars are slowly taking the suburbs 

while homeowner associations cling 

to pre-measured shrubberies. 

Children know about racism and saffron 

but I recall the days of chalk 

and skinned knees. 

Will there be nostalgia for phone wires 

or will we have radar to navigate 

since the sun will have burned our retinas?

How do you feel, he asked? 

Thwarted, she answered, 

with swollen eyes and a sleepy gaze. 

It was too much to ask to stay contained 

inside that white shirt. So she didn’t. 

But somehow the dream turned 

from an open sky to a lizard gaze 

as 4500 fingers pressed buttons 

tilting the world a little to the left, 

leaving a trail of swallows and 

a rainbow of marshmallows to the right. 

How is your flight, he asked? 

Burningly happy, she answered, 

as they neither understood the pain 

nor could read directions 

as written in clouds.

There is a giant moving sidewalk 

slithering through the countryside, 

leaving bits of seeds and giggles 

to fall among last century’s circuitry. 

Men cut perfect toast points 

while women harvest their own eggs. 

As long as there are doughnuts, 

the children will be fed. 

We hold our truths to be self-involved 

while across the ocean, 

the queen’s raven is missing 

and there is an abundance of bowing. 

The old ways are so good in retrospect 

– like mashed potatoes and masked balls – 

but it’s a fine line between Eden and 

chaos and we willingly try both.