Industry
It was the
monasteries that decided
to divvy up the day into
tiny pieces, a prayer for
this, a song for that.
I say it like it’s a bad thing.
In context, it’s a symphony,
belting out with Gregory in the front row
chosen to be renewed among the packs of
fogged renters, a multiplicity
of beauties this pipe organ
jamming in Dorian
and even its wheezes
are angelic sneezes
But when you bring the tin-brained cat
out of the clover field, you realize that
she doesn’t know where she is and
you are forcing time into tiny bundles
that don’t really exist and don’t know
where to go. Rivulets of unweaned
meaning try to focus around bolsters
of steel-reinforced concrete that smell
of oil and bad, old food. And the result
is what you see on the plate -
limp salad and ragweed,
forests of it, on fire,
for miles.