From the detritus of the hypermodern age
I pull telephone wire from the river like black hair.
Fall drops furred teeth brown from tobacco and
overgrown rhubarb. The sky is red from the fire.
What does future look like here, in a city left
like a pig cadaver in a pathologist’s forest lab,
Eyeless, maggotted, sickly-sweet as the sewer
stink. Sweetgrass on the banks and a
Single blanket down below it. When the ice-point
winter stars look back at our age, they’ll ask: What,
of all you made, did you love? And we will say
It all. We loved it all.
