The falcon closed in on a hole at the center
Of the world. The Great Salt Lake drained
Into what remained of the Great Salt Lake.
Nothing fell apart. Nothing failed to hold.
A vortex underneath the sunset puckered.
At a table in a breakfast room lit by dying
Daylight, an oddly shaped individual bent
Over a flickering screen and typed, seeking
Out a key to the tourniquet twisted around
His chest. He wasn’t trying to get away.
He was trying to discover why the worst
Had not convicted him. Best he could say,
A kind of ecosystem near the bottom made
A green dream of exhaustion in the shade.
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