Festival eyes
soquiet as not to make a sound
never to make a sound—
All silent alarms and petroleum ideology;
He tells me glory or nothing
Glory or we're nothing
and with an entire, traitorous town avoiding eye contact,
Sputtering that we will be swallowed whole
because tradition is enough to name a biosphere after—

Well, our names will be sprawled out on each of their doorsteps,
and our last, shuddering grasp of swollen, swaggering indigence:
It'll be something like a homicide scene strewn across their living room walls.

We'll be centuries away.