Epoch H

Perhaps it is so wrong
to pull the amethyste

from the claws
of several generations, to

lay it on the counter
and call it a       rock.

To close a window
and call it a wall or

sell titles
perpendicular to colors.

I am an heirloom of extinction
and rebirth.

Break glass       in an emergency
and study its architecture.

When I finally get my hands
on the gnarls of age

I will fix myself perennial
and surrender punctuation,

like the megafauna,
to my holocene collapse.

This       is how
language is a remnant

of a hole punched six-
pack that traps the blue whiting

in the Atlantic.           This is how
a net collects enough

hand-me-downs
          to be a floating raft.

This is how I see
the world end             on a budget.

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