The poem you would write good enough
for the gift economy. The embarrassment
of gold on your wrists in the committee
meeting where the issue is belonging.
How many fingernails impress the tight skin
at the point where your hair line ends
and your shoulders begin. A flourish
of mountains, scornful, because the inventors
told you you don’t belong here. This year.
Ozymandias chuckles at his disinterment,
but that makes good on a long promise the light
made to blench his throat in the deserts
west of the spring. Pray for pyrex.
No museums will ever preserve your conscience.
A cavalier selfie stirrups a canvas to a genetic
signature donated to your clinic’s ethics conference.
Don’t you wish you had made it
to the USSR for seconds long enough
to be impeached from your arrogance.
Two companies truce, while the plant labours over
an obsolescent cuisine some lemmings enthuse about.
There is vision in tomorrow’s vitamin.
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