These Grains

The future is a sand-box:

Clean, though it has been used before.

You’ve done fifty years of

Robot-sheep sleep

In the routine pipe-pipe-pipe.

Now pick up your spade:

Dig your holes, shape your hills,

Build the walls, the castles.

I am here, to nudge your elbow,

Gently remind you _

As I whispered in your predecessor’s ears –

Though you are all,

Ultimately, sensibly programmed to forget –

There are those that will use these grains

After you and your irrelevant efforts

Are gone … and they’ll never know that you were here!


The bad dreams will have you

If the best ones don’t.