With my black rake as a warning to the fertile dirt,
and clouds warring above, I wonder what we will be
when the Amazon Prime delivery man goes extinct
and this history of self-gibbeting catches up to us
in The Great Nothing. Let me calculate the distance
 
to our next glass of water. Allow the dusty,
stuffed moose head at the lodge to try and talk
some sense into me. The entire catalogue
of Bond hits are at my fingertips, yet still
I am not rich. The sky remains angry and my windows 
 
don’t open anymore: It’s just the shattering
we seek, the bloom we dream about, the blowtorch
turned blue, ready to burn us whole again.