The Future Is One of Place

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.