Topsoil

A few nights ago

On my street

A guy concluded his

Life in a dry cleaning van,

Holding someone’s

Bullet behind his face.

Meanwhile, in the ground,

Moles overwhelmed eat

Desperately

Through the growing dirt.

We’re losing topsoil

But not in the city. Dirt

In the city grows

When the street-sweepers park

And the senate finds

Home in fossils.

Maybe already they’ve put him

Into the ground, under the dirt

That grows.

Matter cannot be created nor

Destroyed,

And the dirt is growing.

The dirt must grow from somewhere.

It swells up to encase cities,

Uruk, Hazor,

Nashville that was,

Out and higher,

Dissipating the stratosphere,

Out and frosty,

Into the void beyond Pluto,

Until dirt that was follicle,

Dirt that was smile and grimace

Tumors spinningly

Out to the empty pupil of the Milky Way.

We’re covering our tracks.