Following Time

Following time, rent~ a battelfield~
pay little, derive

a sense of melancholy~life is
sad, cheap.

But, following time, motors growl the same
as there're lines to be crossed,

measurements to profit. Thus lie
half-dreamt, watch the steam elicit

from the soil a ghost carpet.
On a land as big as my body,

so much untouched, the war costs
little, ages much.

Following a payment, then, it's granted~
rulers lie across our hands,

little slanted burrows cloud up
in puffs of smoke.

The Tarantula won't dig another~
she'll die in broad air.