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BORNE OUT OF THE NATURAL ARCHIVE

Brick piles pock-painted
by active radio gulls
sea-driven or land-urged
the wings move the same toxicity

skeletons in hollowed elegance
unchanged, our floating relatives
over parking lots and vaster expanses
with the universal death palette
contributed to rain all over

Where the compass is killed they won't move
and where we have flown our machines
may be birdless
but for a few escaped images
chapels of domed digital
where a liquid metal core lofts flowerbed nukes
to teem with galleries of what
in brilliant minority
we ache to keep and have destroyed completely.