Gravé Future’s Light

The primitive future
is not that without innovation
it is that with continued
worship of currency
like dog-fishing murals
and poetic dispersals of
cake-laced fares, stern in the orgy
of pessimistic indoctrination

Do not ring that steeple bell
clung to a tree in the backyard graveyard
do not bring us a future of wealth
just migrate to the doctored sands
a future that is tried by what we need
scabious dances in the inkling light
for bells shattered by graves and cogent light

Do not steal broken hurdles
like mask dances with the one who may
stepped down from church porches
in obsequious and mordent fires
etching your own salvation
in quatre blocks for souvenirs, auctioneers
adrift in caustic sands
from an absent wind

Do not steal shelter
or opacity from structures
that never rehearsed or intended
to harm or manufacture you
you, who were never threatened
have become the grave danger
and now the frets are loose
and now the totem abasements, recoiled