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The Future Is One of Place

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The future is one of place
devoid of race.
A jawbone under a sock
is a geological clock.

The plunking of rain
on the termite-riddled windowpane:
reading a Bible on that ledge
is a tiny college.

A Galápagos tortoise is killed
(or, simply, unwilled).
The Ebola virus weeps, or retires,
because, like us, it tires.

Meanwhile, below the subbasement,
a Suede Revolution:
the phlegmatic skill of the cryptographer
soixante-huitards the teleprompter.

The id in facsimile
is suspended on a leash,
twisting in the rain
above that goddammed windowpane.

Being is slightly corrupted
by the Thinking that’s one-upped it
(like the pun on pain)
and will never love again.

Source: Poetry (February 2017)

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This poem originally appeared in the February 2017 issue of Poetry magazine

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The Future Is One of Place

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