Even unthreatened, you're
a goner, singer. Say this
and your face goes
under. We're of the same dark
ages, same flashes, but my mouth
is more a cause-effect flower.
There's a room—Hello!—full
of everything we've ever out-
grown, and not a bit of it
is money. The creatures
there were killed for so much less
than their obvious sweetness.
The barely dreamt-of alarm's
the more frequent alarm.
I make us explain—A passing
machine shines
missing.—the screen, a slice
of lecture dire with color.
Calculable—Got it.—and radiant
cuts, that's
the policy. The world
was always yours, you.
The dead are fine.
-Graham Foust
