I’ve often dreamt of utopia A pretty little pond and perfect petunias A rose frozen over, trapped in a glass box An aquarium of cells Within cells, within cells Interlinked Amoeba, the Zeitgeist Phosphorous and fluorescents A subtle scent that tastes like skin We cry, “Death to the corporation!” I’m dreaming of better days In perfunctory nods, closed quarters A locker that only takes coins I don’t remember when it started The voices The empty gestures of hope We weave in and out Between traffic cones, metro rails Like ants scattered for molehills We make mountains from Land mass and synthesis Lakefill, landfill, the head of King Philips the Fourth On a silver platter Clementines, goat cheese A basket of bread baked by Jackie Webber At the local book club She recommends “For Our Sons & Daughters” But she hasn’t read a single page
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