poetry

old growth

a poem by jacob berg

contents of a nightstand, 2014

i caught my reflection by its eye. there are
few calls to report the unchanged, but
still water runs holy across
decades of weeks. it’s muddy
where things become numbers.
too easy to get keys when they’re
for sale. too hard when they’re
hidden. could cain him if
he’d abel you’d rather just
tend farm though, send the
bastard’s kid to college. make
machines that make machines.
remind em of analogue endtimes, how
our bodies become forests
in their atrophy. what’s
old growth in a revolution?

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