oil well sings of the future 

in the dip-bird field where
everyone is a bucket, i hear the ancient
talking. it is asking about how
we taste the sun & if there is enough.
this is really two questions separated
by 'if' & 'will.' there will not be enough
& some people will climb a ladder
to the moon & some people will burrow
with the rabbits & other people
will turn into statues & satellites. 
when i was little i had a phase of 
renewable energy obsession. i tried
to convince my family to buy 
an electric car. there was always 
a hole in the ceiling or a broken door.
time passed & i changed my goals.
maybe a wind mill or a solar panel field.
nothing came of all of that. we talked
to dinosaurs. they explained, "the ending
is always darker than you think it will be."
if there was a comet, the end did not come 
like a blown out candle. instead, it burned down
until even the tree could not remember
their language. once we set a fire in 
our yard. it was mostly compost. the smoke
came in the shapes of gods. the dinosaurs 
in every engine gasping for the memory.
when i am syrup i hope i will be sweet.
something pourable. a tongue outstretched.
we have not learned how to catch each other
when we go extinct. instead, this world 
says, "will you take me to the park lot?"
i go there. lay in a parking spot like a car. 
wait for night to spill.