Unhurried landscapes and unworried treetops — that was them aeons.
Or so we glimpse.
Language networks in a post-humanity
our imaginations can’t progress beyond…
Stags set the stage for territoriality that is only sometimes forgotten
in a sketch.
Sociology is built not on groups but factions:
language drives warring beacons.
Fear in those eyes have peers: but the wayfalls through the sieve
of memory and specie leave little:
just dregs of trust in an oxbow lake after the dam of power
has burst through. The tower is tall, of
the simian form, and orangutans are
Sons are caught in the net of rediscovery by dawn
of the others. There is no forest with
a last herd of unicorns. Guns are faint beasts:
were towers mere ropeways for “hanging out”,
but upwards on them gloat is born.
Let’s not save each other, ever. The betrayal is
the stench of a firelit forest and human dams.
We don’t take the BART between neighborhoods —
after babies temporarily disarm.
There is a maturity in rendering
from the winters of once-kindnesses,
and the face is loved as a gaping canvass of seduction,
its temporalities, tresses, and dimensions.
Who thuds upon this very ground? Who lands
a spear against an enemy that apes
humanity? Civilization will remain a dusk:
shall we proceed to study the sociology of the forlorn?