For Karl Marx, on the 140th anniversary of his death
What if my house were built upon shifting sands
With their unending sequel of recognitions
Of barren laid lands, sometimes a bone
Sometimes a whole civilization
At times that knot in the stomach
That tells you beware of the surface
What lies below is what counts
What if my home were to rise
In the blinded eye of the storm
Caught between prevailing winds
And sudden drops of pressure
Its shutters torn, its door shattered
Unable to contain or be contained
Flying from Kansas to Kazakhstan
Its wounded foundations
Spilling atmospheric terror
And what if puzzled future half-knowers said
“We can’t be certain, yet they moved”
Of that sand and wind civilization
Harder to decipher than the People of the Sea
Their only tracks their rotten fuels
Depleted uranium and glow-in-the-dark
Half-truths ingested with the speed of light
In the fraught tenements of perilous might
Pina Piccolo 14 marzo 2023
Cover image: “Flying House” by timkir, on DeviantArt