that’s one more box of circuits
for the free-cycle junkies
who feed off the curb
of end-days regret
This city is a way-station;
the people come
only to
leave
like a screen saver
that spawns fresh life
from nothing,
nowhere
when we were too late to notice
the first puncture in
the landscape
that swam downstream
for awhile, there is
new couches, new kitchens
new coaches,
new cushions
until the wrist-flick moment:
they all disappear
and so will
I
It is a hard drive
for anyone to take
wound up in worn
cables
taut and intestate
caught and decrepit
like nana’s
mind,
holding on to the last few shares
of our joint venture
a once ambitious young investor
I denied the fundamentals
that all markets
contract
this is the final rally
of my dot-com boom
I am sorry,
but it is better that we know
the mail flyer
physics, who wrote:
“Everything must go”