Like Flowered Elysium

The urn of now
would have images
of microchips and golden
arches, Einstein’s tongue
picture and Hitler’s profile.

Leaves break down
under stress from children
walking to school, rather wading
through air along intermittent
grass-clippings and plastic bags
of waste. Land,

or cold pastoral,

fell as empires and termite hills,
as well as
the ants’ nest under
the small stone Jesus in front of
the weeping cherry.

Empire rose.              Again.
Another                     fall comes.
I imagine those
who embrace the rapture
with crushing hugs.

—wheat browning and yielding
          its clusters,
bent; spent after
another season.
          The mist of a brook turning
into a smack of water,
salmon and pebbles—

Sometimes I find pleasure
in taking old possessions,
like clay cups I made in
elementary school,
and shattering them.