in the dirt, rough-set in patches,
gray-to-brown to ombre out
the pavement, mud splotches, impassable
buildup of the debris is the hard stone
set against the better thought rattles the heart;
that it lies eaten up in the shadow
of Everything to them places the colder
darkness in the bright summer mind.
What of the vines that used to choke out
the rotted wood & the new growth
that emerged from the plastic
empire? What of the theory of Idea
laid out in abundance at one geographic
point? What of the soul of an object,
left to develop on its own only after
the humanity has been slowly removed,
opening the space to allow something more
humane? What of the stone half-staircase,
path upward to the free-spirited meadow,
downward to the urban oasis? What of it,
you say; what of the paths diverged
to link back together at the right time?
What of the keystone point of their
connection? What of connection? What of hope?
What of the dying spirit that no longer requires
the universe that no longer requires it?
What of a few memories, scattered,
dandelion seeds mowed to the waste bin?
What of ends; what of these odds and ends
of brick tossed aside for the reckless pirates
who discover another man’s treasure?
What of theft? What of the hoards in the beach
kept deep and looted some thousand
years later in the name of archaeology?
Yes, what of it, of everything and one square yard
sand-shoveled to the ground? What of the life
of an Idea? What of the unbound soul of Inspiration
itself, now a ghost with nowhere to hold on?
What of hoping at least the satellites
wouldn’t be smart enough by now to realize the concept of an end?