What flares up, though, disappears,
the fire no more a fire than
the one blown by a boy’s
little men on ladders
packing it in,
smiles all around
They say we’re evolving into robots,
six-million-dollar men, adjusted for inflation,
or actually deflation,
since we’ll become cheaper to make,
and we’ll be everywhere, like plastic stuff
no one wants (not now, though later they will).
“People 2.0” we’ll be, they say,
though no self-respecting robot
would use that term. We don’t
go around calling ourselves
“the chimps” now, now do we?
So yes, we’ll be off flying ourselves
through space in ships oiled to light
beams, just ahead, I suppose,
of the bombs we’ve built
and the rising sea with all the
dead fish in it (it’s a vision
of hope, as I understand it, a new
chance to get it right).
Meanwhile, though, I’m stuck on this
future trash pile on Good Friday
2017, clinging to my cross,
a chimp and chump weak in the wind
of God 2.0
A discourse of rains, of intense blues and greens.
One is gone and fights go on,
and not a few have the shakes.
I’m ashiver myself,
though your sun would bisect
this dripping wind
and give us the hope in-between.
Is it enough? It’s never enough
for the cloth-clad accuser (April’s sore loser)
still wanting to know:
who’s the righter for being colder?