John Keene

An engineer fires up a new power plant.
A city on the grid flares like the surface of a star.

At the border, a small army masses and husbands
its arms. We fail to grasp

that we are always grasping and mostly feeling,
which eludes the plotted axis.

The mother tortoise sweeps
beneath the silver wave

and the axes, if not the plastic nets. Will we
eventually dream of tortoises

when there are no more tortoises
or mothers to dream of?



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