Another Word for Deteriorating Over Time
By Zebulon Huset
We reap fields of dust
in bleak kitchen cupboards.
Soon we'll release our ant farm
unto that untouched Eden.
Like deity trackers, each morning
we’ll seek meek footprints.
Perhaps our ants will draft
six winged dust angels as penance
and we’d laugh as proud parents
with smiting fingertips ready to stamp
any ant that goes after our apples.
To avoid moving costs,
own very little.
Possessions accumulate around you
when you settle.
In triangles of sunlight
you can see the vibrating strings of things
waiting to be snipped.
She said if you get rid of everything
too many times,
soon you'll have nothing.
he said you still
can't call a poem “Entropy.”
Even beaches slough sand.
Whichever way the current sways,
so migrates rock’s ground grains.
Combed from the beach
they’d each come to call home.
Landforms too rid self
of self, as sands scatter a sea
like ashes dashed from a cataclysm.
Terrestrial star stuff.
Yesterday, a row of ducklings
waddling along the shoulder line
was intentionally dashed
by a swerving pick-up truck.
Lightning strikes too few people.
Sometimes I squish ants
I'm neither proud
When I see grand ruins
I imagine great stone structures
like massive skeletons, teeth bared,
never buildings whole—
no Packard factories churning out cars—
they’re deprived of facades
of wood or plaster. Scrapped of metals.
Of stones small enough
to be carted off, repurposed
for a hut, a fire pit, a place of worship.
The dust of immensity
spread thin again.