the way capitalism is push push go
go not forward but outward and more.
Feels like a lot, like too much good lunch.
A sloth crosses a road with all arms inching,
crunched around its hairy bones. Old
old mountains. Long books
about mountains and their age and the wars
that were fought near their bases. Around
their sturdy tops. Like a cannon!
The one that shoots a clown out
at the circus fair. Next to the tent
with elderly camels and llamas and miniature
horses who are thirsty all the time.
The smallest suggestion of thirst.
The orange groves, the expanding
suburbs, the sample taken from a melting
glacier near Argentina and the sharp tool
that cuts down into its side-middle, the cups
of soft coffee as they pass through windows
at drive-throughs. The prevalence of
drive-throughs. The stop of a mind
when it tries to picture the curve
of the earth out the window of a car
as it straightens a road out, out
and even farther, longer out. The tip
of a picture window, the heaviness
of meat. A very tall neck on
a tall person looking towards a long
stream. The lack of an end to the stream.
The mouth of an ocean and the birds
that fly in and out, toothy. Grains
of sand in the mouths of the seagulls,
in between their strange teeth.
Beach blankets. Any section of sky.
The idea that it could be portioned, somehow
and the big, big want that makes it so.