By now our pent-up happiness
will have landed on a porch. Yours, it turns out.
You, last domino, wake at the end of our run on earth:
servers stacked like skyscrapers, sun bloated and red,
our organs floating in buckets.
Make our move. Unleash our power, our hounds,
our chi, our china. Carbonize the attics of passion
projects we’ve left unlabeled. Forgive us.
We have so easily.