Up to now all poems from The Wallace Variations, were written years ago, but i have been writing new ones, here is a new one.


Wallace Counts Leaves


There are not enough leaves on
this tree— I counted, it’s short.

It is mid-summer,
a few days after solstice.

Tree blown into ragged perms,
all the trees, old dames

with enough moppets to breed
a nation of hard-thinking,

quick-talking cosmopolitans.
Nations, bunked in ideals, stuck

in a lock of time they idolize
as ratio of themselves.


Cheap souvenirs in expensive
gift shops, wrapped in cellophane.

The internet abolished distances
better than telephones

though they live comfortably
side by side— you can touch

other cultures with the tips
of your fingers, even nomads.

So why does everything
keep separating at such

tremendous speeds, like
the Hollandaise left on the hob.

Posted by:DPM

DPM is an idea-logue (sic) and object-oriented speculative realist, attempting to be response-able in an irresponse-able society.

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