warehouse

they're building a warehouse 
for the warehouse. a warehouse for
all of our fingers. to eat the land.
to fuck the land again. again. again.
they get bigger each time. a field. 
a fist of trees. swallowed like rations. 
the warehouse always wants more warehouse. 
more places to hoard boxes of plastic beads
& plastic teeth & plastic gods. they want
everyone to go & work in the warehouse.
to have babies who know nothing 
but warehouse. to turn our blood
into warehouse guts. to warehouse our houses
until we are nothing but their tightening machine.
the warehouse asks, "what can we sell?" the trees
ask, "what can we shelter? what can we keep?"
i imagine us with hammers, striking 
the warehouses. the warehouse, asking 
for five dollars per swing & us paying it.
all the warehouse bones, where would they go
even if they were broken? centuries of rubble.
the deer looking on. telling one another,
"money people will do anything to prove
they are not animals." the worst moment
is when they flatten the land. the wound before
the warehouse. the dirt, bleeding wild
in the spring air. how quickly it could become
a meadow. the warehouse coughs up trucks.
coughs up people in terror uniforms.
dandelions grow at the edges. they say, "as long
as there is dirt..." i want us to be as loud as them.