Lament

This playground's crater began way back
with the formation of a meteor collecting
reflections of itself. I sit here thinking,
one foot planted in creation, the other
in exploitation, that my complaint is premise
and illusion, and fruit is memory and energy.
Someone who says a photo of a frame is not cute
enough to be coy. Rather, I'm told, you
must show the rotting classic and evoke
its historiography. I fall asleep drunk
and wake up startled. Archery makes an echo
of war. I must take a long walk before
I speak. I must buy new shoes before I walk.
I must get a job that doesn't yet exist
to afford suitable shoes. I will not mention
the catalog of fossils reborn in images.
As the team is led back into its barn,
a light passes from the house and is gone,
terminating on the blank skull of a ram.