Crumbling Worldview

I’m precarious in the haze from
The memory of the world’s trading
For bones, fresh baby jingles
Like key chains or charm bracelets.

I’m edgy like a doom in the aircraft
They’re made with. Sludgy like
A slick of jet fuel in the swamp

My every-swamp a sarcophagus
Bemolded; put together before
The concrete hardens, before
The daylight strikes a clear

Path through the thinking
Lobes and the boardroom woodens
With scattering officials.