Now let us tell each other many myths
in this modern era, this plaguy drag of years
marching ever toward the slow heat-death
of the unspiralling universe—
We will tell each other fables of lost appliances:
of the oven that baked one’s sorrow into
hard cakes to last the winter through,
of the chest freezer fat as a resurrected Easter
ham, stuffed full of tupperwared affection.
It was different before, when prayers went
unanswered except by unruly mechanical gods,
bent on destruction and deconstruction,
on the betterment of board games,
and the declination of satellite technology.
Then we were ourselves.
Now we are as bitter as someone who had faked
the moon landings, only to find out that no one
believed in the moon in the first place.
We are full of sugared treats, sticky
with carnival disappointment and bitter
as mud, as prospectors back from the general store
still carrying their sacks of iron pyrite.
We are lapsed worshippers of the natural disaster
of our selves, grasping for the unruly deities
of our fleshy pasts, soaking in the rays of a disappointed
sun, mirrored in the hidden face of the liquid future,
our lives an empty stencil held against a greying sky.