early in every creature feature
someone screams it’s alive
and i wonder if this is how the dead feel
when we disturb their rest
with our roots and shovels
our engines our blind snouts
are we the zero at their bones
the transparent shades
of unremembered life
empty as gris-gris bags
each with a single
spidery line of text
do they watch us creep
and crepitate like lava
destroying and destorying
everything green and pungent
by the end of the flick
an indifferent sun
will have vaporized
the whole rotten lot of us
but until then we intersect
only in brief spasms
and we’re listed in the credits
for rattle and moan
and almost imperceptible sigh
*
A revision of this poem from 2011.