Black Hellespontus

Black Hellespontus
to the west,
splash of scree
in a moire
so that an impossible
carbon fiber exists,
shifting.

Scrumbrush aloft
on an updraft
where isobars coming down
shift from still-lit side to
ruddy twilight. As if
an aftereffect
of broken institutions

newly, freshly
broke them. Not
that, say, the mix had not been right;
that the nitrogen economy
was a dangerous external force;
that we bought
upheaval cheaply.

Of course
this.
Until nostalgia for
homesteading is
all there is. The
turned aside
earth,

warm milk.
And the carrion call
which is this: not
only had we brought it all
with us, but
made it up.