Pantoum

Perhaps the universe is an extinguished building with blue banners strung along and the forest, more like a commodity bordering bushes and asphalt, something else to string our blue banners on. Never was restoration swifter: the leafless trees, the asphalt less splintered and more splendid. Never was restoration swifter with its mightier solutions, less splintered and more splendid snipers, dynamiters, colorful bombs. We please ourselves with mightier solutions, picnics under blue spruces snipers, dynamiters, colorful bombs the guardians of what we might call “home rights.” At picnics, under blue spruces we clamor after the news and its employees, the guardians of “home rights” “the media” mustering “one mind.” It’s news, the decision to nobly save rather than meanly lose some pretense of mustering “one mind” secures its truth. The decision to nobly save rather than meanly lose our flag secures its truth as a squirrel secures its nuts by hiding them in the ground. Our flag— a souvenir of having been here before a squirrel’s nuts, deep in the ground. But travel, travail, and The Method’s mistakes all souvenirs of having been here before, haunt us and taunt us and call us names. But travail, travel, and Method’s mistakes mark a different season, nuts rotting, bulbs blooming. Each season haunts us and taunts us and calls us names until finally the universe is an extinguished building, a different season, nuts rotting, bulbs blooming and the forest, a commodity.