Winged victory, shoes that never fit my feet,
too narrow. Cold hallowed hum of machines,
with a chill- recollections of seaside scenes.
An inner drum throbs, someone I'll never meet.
Fallow fields where pumpkins grew last summer,
then floated in a flood, bloated bodies rotting.
Becoming plant, becoming rock, becoming nothing,
weaker than I was, more vicious, dumber.
A vulgar sculpture in a concrete Parthenon,
in the field outside they play Frisbee and shout.
Thinking about replicas, division, doubt,
mud pies, cow eyes, the Whore of Babylon.
Thinking about thinking, about being a jerk,
penning verses for little dead things at my desk at work.