four hart in a stream owned by tomorrow
whose factory-sluice death runs cold their marrow
three eagles gnaw salmon killed off by tycoons,
ten aeons hence, one mushroom-cloud june,
storm clouds are canned, come popping from nodes
on digital whims and oligarch codes
nine wolves deep cave resting, prowling nocturnal
five winds sub-arctic, hell cats primordial
cubicle glacier, our snowshoe of speed
runs factory precision on table spread greed
a billion tonnes calving but who really counts
our personal souls droppings: a whopping one ounce
floating past gods, their form in the doe
our human waste frozen and nowhere to go
2017
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