II.
Lucy?
You’re smashed in future fragments
you may not meet. You reside in
forward-thinking history; dry astronaut food.
They were the future. I’m sick
I’m roaming the plates.
Puppy?!
I think of you.
I’m falling. I’m feed.
Now I’m ashes at the crystal farm. I’m orange dirt
in burlap bags, hacked from rock
two crows gawk at B roll crap.
That’s not nature.

We’re proud of it. We’re rich. We’re at the bottom;
looking to the top. We’re professional.
We are tourism.