PASTORAL LOGIC for Clark Coolidge
I surfed through this nuworld this afternoon
and it was shiny, noisy, clean and intact
as brass tacks clasped in memory stacks, as
phantoms on bicycles pedal soft into ruined futures.
The earth unscrolled in folds beneath the furrows
of human endeavour, though old not much wiser
as if nothing had happened to turn in alarm
from casually irrational acts and predatory charm.
I passed the fields of crushed red brick
where a viral sky shed fat flakes that vanished
into robin's-egg blue smooth to the touch
yet intricate as ice rimed upon grimy windows.