Just Patterns
Posted: Mon Nov 11, 2019 2:50 pm
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Just Patterns
Across the back of a continent
black dots line mountain ranges, lakes,
blood lines smear the color of camelbacks,
lion tails perched always on the edge–
a holster reaches down the horn.
The death of the dream of Pangaea
backgrounds a lost center – South Atlantic
now gone white without the slave ships.
Mirror imaged to the left, a Brasil something
pens out toward a future of chaos.
A razor, a god, a scrap of torn magazine text
the size of Uruguay, turned upward, written in script
of a lost language- like a finger in the mouth of the wind.
We choose to not see villages at the confluences,
the devastation, the snakes lying in wait. Stone face
ghosts of Easter Island must be on the back side.
Our eyes are on a downward duck of beer cans,
glasses rattling in a faceless tavern–
we see no people – just patterns.
Just Patterns
Across the back of a continent
black dots line mountain ranges, lakes,
blood lines smear the color of camelbacks,
lion tails perched always on the edge–
a holster reaches down the horn.
The death of the dream of Pangaea
backgrounds a lost center – South Atlantic
now gone white without the slave ships.
Mirror imaged to the left, a Brasil something
pens out toward a future of chaos.
A razor, a god, a scrap of torn magazine text
the size of Uruguay, turned upward, written in script
of a lost language- like a finger in the mouth of the wind.
We choose to not see villages at the confluences,
the devastation, the snakes lying in wait. Stone face
ghosts of Easter Island must be on the back side.
Our eyes are on a downward duck of beer cans,
glasses rattling in a faceless tavern–
we see no people – just patterns.