Nature by Bianca Stone

Maybe humans are the failed A.I. of Nature.

Maybe Nature made something it thought would tend the garden.

Maybe Nature made something sexy, to watch clean the pools with long butterfly nets

and a sunburn-the retainers of Nature.

Now, mirror of mercury and Hell, that hot-red bomb in your mouth, that sweet battleground on your tongue-

it is the catastrophe of your mission.

The wealthy, with their outstanding educations and custom shoes, and empty apartments floating above like Glinda; the ballad of media, the intellectuals, almost shepherding evolution, falling asleep in their haunted paintings and unattainable poetry-all the dimensions of each person’s being, punk, restless in a loop.

Sometimes I want to be taken into nothingness.

I want to be burned with the gypsy moths and blindweed.

Run to exhaustion with the wildebeest.

I don’t want this phone, I want to kill God.

Maybe humans are the complex systems of a natural order that must build and destroy itself in perpetuity.

Blue chicory on the road saying, the end of summer in a sandstorm of our passing-they gyrate and smile-what of our little duties to the architect?

Our deep-red blood our lush tech-

Archangels limping into paradise.