Castings

They say it is the fourth age
Of men–and last. We cast
Ourselves corrosively,
Dressed in silicon
And shimmering sand.
Smoke enfolds the city
Exhausting our topography
As cars sputter to inscrutable
Designs. I dream of ants,
Swarming,
Entombed in soft earth.
To map the structure of anthills
We cast them in aluminum. Elaborated
Hallways, chambers, networks
Like birch trees dressed in silver
The occupants insensible
Within the casting.
I cannot breathe while dreaming.
If I have a religion it is this:
That large truths are obliterations
Of small ones, that parousia will not be
A person, but a flood.