pressed under glass
the last goldfinch whistle
slowly solidifies
into earwax
untroubled by looters
who choose flashier artifacts
from this dilapidated museum
close to closing time
in one diorama the leaves
are already withering
in another, farmers turn played-out
soil toward the sun
which is kept in a separate
display case on the mezzanine
right above the blowhole
of a great blue whale
***
This is similar in concept to a haibun in Failed State, though that imagined a domestic space. Because of that redundancy, I wasn’t going to share it, until I noticed that it ended on a somewhat more positive note, with a nod toward the cosmic, and decided I rather like that. Though I did flirt with the idea of continuing in a more cynical vein:
“and in the gift shop they carry
disposable vape pens of petrichor…”