Is it me, or do
powerful intimations
of dread seem
to flow naturally
simply from the
order of things—
all my grubbiest
daily activities
collapsing and folding
like pup tents
into clean, portable
existential dilemmas,
each one hard
as a single diamond
which is buried
in an obsidian
prison of mountains
to express—
and yet so easy
to approximate,
clone, and broadcast
via this naive, tried-
and-true, workmanlike
triangulation of
poised image, de-
stabilized image, and
cutting observation.
