And if ideas are birds, do they sing for a reason,
or, is all
explained by evolutionary desire,
to move on, to go forward,
to new forms random and unplanned.

This change goes nowhere, so the theory says.
There cannot be a goal, progress cannot
be toward anywhere at all.

Destruction lies out there, intended or not,
someone wants to hasten the end,
to explode a point as if proof of the imperfect surge.

More disaster always lies ahead,
Dying is an idea, not like an idea,
it is the one that controls the many.

The wind buffs the building, outlines
its place in the air.  So
feel the rush of the world,
hurtling on around us.

The leaves which have just come out blow down—
spring has come too soon, or too late, or too fast,
at least somehow not right, for they can’t handle
the strain, are torn into the river, and flow down
to the sea in the storm.

Here the lightning’s always waiting
even in the sun it may come down;
this place holds the rough tension that knows
all is not right with the world.

There is that hollow uneasiness.
like when you drive down the night highway
over a dried red stain of blood,

no impact this time, just a smooth sail
over the scene of the crime.

The fields over the Zone are burning,
they were set to take a stand.
Every inch of the ground is poison
Each whiff of smoke brings death to the lungs.
What did you expect?
Did you think that comet you found as a kid
was ever more than a scratch on the telescope lens?

The aum in the trees like an alien evening
The seventeen year cicadas are back
Ten years since the accident
Eighteen since the bombs first went off
Time counts in cycles, we expect more.
Probability tells us: there will only be more accidents
That is the norm, the risk inherent
in experimentation. [5]