Scoundrel Time

The Beginnings of Sorrows


In my country, number one

for billionaires, prisoners, franchises

offer menu consistency. What lies

dormant today in the collective

unconscious? Akin to tintype, sun prints

itself on structures and skin.

As we age our vocabularies

expand with names of maladies,

despots, lands next for neglect.

Never so many in history displaced

and in transit, our weather’s breaking

records again. In maps, see crimson,

scarlet, ruby, ochre, folly, wine,

rust augur sea level rise

and agricultural loss. Whom,

in interminable funeral, transcend

time’s passing imagining nude?

How hope some ideal elsewhere,

mirroring correspondence, spooky

action at a distance, perfects

all motion? In my country,

stick’s best trick: stay stuck

years marking spot sprung culprit

returns to at long last as salmon

and tangerine sunset tints the earth.