Another Morning, Same Mountain
Enshrouded mountain,
relieving the lake
of yr shadow,
in another century
you’d be the unseen
presence, analogue
of divinity.
Every tribe calls itself
the people. Thou shalt
have no other gods
before me. The rose
bush has gone mad
but not burning.
Masturbation’s loosed
from shame among a slice
of folk, the ones officially
modern. The silent
immolation of libraries
will require fewer gunshots
than the death of the last
passenger pigeon.
I read the face
of the mountain
in books I scan
a screen for its crevice.
The picturesque,
the beautiful, the sublime
reek of another time.
We were worried
about everything
including the obvious.
“The people of Papua
New Guinea will do
just fine.” It’s the rest
of us here on the precipice.
You first.
