Technocrat

Life is a trade:

sacrificing sailboats
for cargos, carriers, cranes
for cranes, endless horizons
for skylines, shipwrecks
for ship decks.

I never heard of a poem
as lovely as a tree, but of towers,
streetlights, electric posts. I see no brilliance
in rainbows, but of neon signs, graffiti
walls, jukebox machines. Here in my hands:

a hologram of my past, our home near the sea
creating sandcastles, floor plans laid out in soil:
the dream of an empire. Billboards posted
on sketchpads, big fonts, faces, lights saying
here we are. Or, here I will be.

After the hourglass
shatters and turns into
microchips, what was once
theirs will be someone else’s,
and perhaps what was once ours
will never be ours. Nothing else
stays but this routine of daily loss.

Farewell, and quickly, hello.

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