A conspiracy of faults
Drink, little folks, for all things conspire against you.
Frozen energy. All things are verbs to the Renaissance man.
Whole holy depressant world, I don’t know what language
you stole from us! Here we are, scurrying and foraging,
eating, fucking our own mischief-making limbs! And biology
doesn’t even bow its head, mathematician it, at your
giant’s pull on the little stories we tell each other
shaking in the night and shaking in the day and shaking
in the green Elysium we might inherit if we yawn
at littler quakes than us, who know we have been.