The ignominy of inactivity

The black heated road, circumambulating

the garden of the tall, well-fed, green grass,

tries to merge into the highway,

laid out to high-speed humanity

and short circuit the sands of time,

waylays a dog or two,

cows, a cow or two,

denuding the transience of the breath of life.

The dogs of now devour the cow that was.

Life comes a full circle around

the death of activity. In-activity, they call it.

The highway, in turn, longs to merge into

the reactionary black heated road, encircling the

garden, where the grass is tall and

well-fed on the ignominy of inactivity.