CAN
Duchampian incongruence among the pig fern,
a
discarded tin zen-emptied of something.
Pithed husk, illegible label peeling off
a
robot stripper, Helen of Alloy more
lasting
than
Babylonian brick or Grecian urn as colophon
to
our late capitalist Atlantis.
Stannic-plated
steel, more durable
than
your aluminium cousins;
carbon,
tin atoms forged in
the
heart of a dying star, iron
from
a meteorite, torn up from
earth
where lain since the sun coalesced
something
intriguing from its retinue
of
dust.
Half-burial here has spared it,
freed
it from the karmic wheel
of
endless recycling.
Gnomic
ocular reckonings mosaic the still
mirror
bright only slightly squashed
baroque
elliptic cylinder (hauntingly in profile
like
a kicked-in zygomatic bone) in creeping gamboge,
russet
rust, cumbrous umber, and Martian nacarat
(rust
never sleeps) where tin’s apotropaic
magic
spottily failed, and foxing fawning
oxidation
gnaws and nibbles like a decadence
through
its atomic empire.
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