to the dark
horses out there
that late afternoon light—
so tardy
and dull
as it falls strangely
cold upon a crumbled
old brick wall—
after churning
through a vast and vacant
vacuum full of waste
in a timeless
yet infinite race
against inflation—
being born
of umpteen billion
apocalyptic furnaces'
compulsive and
hysterical urges
to keep burning—
and with no real
objective, save
to surge until it fails—
could ever have
prevailed against
the threat of ruination
and should plausibly
appear to have
made it here at all.
