Tiny History

field

one day, the air will change,
you’ll wear your hair a different way,
the clothes you thought were so effete
become your style

or the dirt will rise
and the vibrant colours of the day
will smear into grey and brown

you’ll touch yourself reluctantly
fearful of disrupting nature

these people standing
the witnesses to failure, hope,
fantasy, and war
won’t notice you

you’ll take the stain of the earth
and hide within the slow decay
along with everyone else

the problem of origin
will be corrupted

your movements will shudder
no grace or art of life
your sex like animals feeding
your lust will dull and fade

you’ll concern yourself with units of measure
and comparisons of torn bits of paper
while around you, the city will burn

the way to arrange the shapes on the table
directs the manner of that tiny history

a feeble breeze stirs the grass

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