Old Story

this taxonomy of aching time

with its tiara of savage light

poised to strike

at clotted diaspora of vaporous mushroom

swathed in shells of rain

a sandalwood hypotenuse beckoning

to a foam of free radicals

to a foam of nematodes

to a foam of lithographers

to a foam of marsupials balanced on extinction’s edge

to a foam of shoe strings

in easterly phonic libations

raising embalmed ice bandages

in lateral toxic philologies

to a didactic prehistoric weather event

overflowing with storage space

where sleeping dogs lie

lying about the future

lying about where it all began

lying about what they do for work

lying about their family

at all stages in all formations

in their acrostic desert crossings

where fruiting spider-vein theorems

and sudden viral espionages explain nothing

in gusts of puissant tectonic blues