When the mind cries foul in Springtime
as the grapevine grows to obscure the inscription
on the temple frieze,
it knows it must look to the few exposed letters
of the message that peak through the leaves
and try to recall the rest of the naked granite face
it chooses to ignore
during all the leafless months of the year.

Failing that, fall all the way down to the ground of the scene---
ignore what came before the frieze
and suffer the fate of all the rest who forgot to look
behind the growth or never puzzled on the meaning
of what's been said and done.

The fate of a world without nature---every single one
singly connected, all consuming, completely linked
beyond any single dream, through every single nothing
to a field all around (but not including) the next one

on the list
or at the table
on the street
across the way.

All the way forward to a nature without world---
the last plastic piece bouncing down a scorched hillside
to the top of the pyre, smoking rich black soot
wafting up to the nostrils of the last visitor
to a newly dead place where words can no longer be shared,
only listed as remains.

A.G. Vermouth



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