There are no greater spurs to human indecency
than cheap shortcuts to wealth
be they lotteries or lies – they are muted calls
to hard work – to tilth
Plough blades rub to blunt – our ground is dry –
our blacksmith has gone
No more steady blows – that loss of his honest hammer
has left his anvil to ring with rust
Old fixed courses of love are smudged in your soft hands
on your quick-to-hold screen
where you advertise yourself to an online world of touches –
you’d resist them if in public
As if everything is circumvented by launches and innovations
as if every previous minute
of humanity is evenly compressed – every way is left to be forgotten
Everyone just wants to be rich