The Future is Dead 

The future is dead
And we have the corpse
To prove it, or perhaps
Not the body itself, but 

Some greasy smoke
And ash scattered in a damp 

Hole in a corner lot.

The grave is spacious
And offers views of the many 

Who still circle like flies 

Around shit. It wasn’t
The money or the promise 

Of plenitude that brought us.

The love was exacting 

And sharp and forgetful. 

A mother passed through 

Without eyes or shoes-- 

She was mine, she was 

Buried in the past, in

The future, in ash, sprinkled 

Over the dirt, mended, mixed, 

Held in chains, a curse, in a bag, 

In a box, bone fragments
In an urn, forever letting go
Of the Earth.