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Radio garbles the forms before they appear.
A ballet of half-born monsters that clutch
at the ballerina's wings.
Grandfather answered for those crimes
when he left the fields and took up
gun and hammer and delivered Jehovah
naked and raw.
That was long ago, now
the machines have returned to oil and dust
and saltwater rust convinced that Nature
is a woman afterall.
Or maybe a worm
depleting the sunrise of the usual suspects.
All down in single file the puppet masters march,
the boiler room delivers them, a feast of loneliness
and bacterial soup. Genesis among the infidel,
sweet as molasses on a cornbread tomb.
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