The new geography
Virginia Aronson

First, the fires ate their maps. Then,
drought wrinkled the faces of wristwatches.

Debris piled up, divested itself of itself
and flew off, charred scraps in a wild wind.

They had no time for lovers, children, pie.
Not to mention visits to the cemetery hills
where grids lay beneath hot running streams.

So many modes of communication but no love.

Words, words pushed out, dispensed, meaningless.
On screens, stomping across fake smiles, ribboning
under the heads of state, music hashing over
and everyone sealing deals on their hands-frees
tossing little flames, slapping their lonely thighs.

Where are they going with all their translations,
jeweled headgear, sleek appliances, exploding toys?

Not north or south, not east or west, not anymore.

Traveling at the speed of stars, taking the earth,
and all its beautiful green layers, with them.

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