I hear the frequency of my kitchen
the deafening sound of appliances
that killed the wind, the quiet
murmur of the grass and the cicadas
and the death throes of little animals
I try to remember the smell of the earth
her dirt, her ashes, her streams, her stones
her forests, her oceans, the long traces
of life in her atmosphere. Instead
I glance at plywood fronts and plastic
and marble and steel and glass and all
brand new, and clean. Inert, threatening
to kill me
I am organic life forgetting itself
forgetting that time is in order
and that I am free, because of it
