eddy wastrel

four hart in a stream owned by tomorrow
whose factory-sluice death runs cold their marrow
   three eagles gnaw salmon killed off by tycoons,
   ten aeons hence, one mushroom-cloud june,

storm clouds are canned, come popping from nodes
on digital whims and oligarch codes
   nine wolves deep cave resting, prowling nocturnal
   five winds sub-arctic, hell cats primordial

cubicle glacier, our snowshoe of speed
runs factory precision on table spread greed
  a billion tonnes calving but who really counts
  our personal souls droppings: a whopping one ounce

   floating past gods, their form in the doe
  our human waste frozen and nowhere to go


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