Lily begins her soliloquy
As the greasewood blossoms.
The more mobile you can be,
The less gear you can carry
The more time you must use making
Your own kit from whatever's handy,
And, believe it or not, the more
Wasteful you will be. It's true.
Debitage from nomads scatters
Like nothing on the rocks,
But a thin, flaky sheen of it
Covers the landscape. It's true.
Percentage-wise, the lighter
You travel, the more you make
Your own little kit daily, the more
You waste over more time and space.
That ridiculous pyramid? That tower,
Those subdivisions within subdivisions
Viewed like pharaonic necklaces,
Inlaid with turquoise and lapis lazuli
Private backyard swimming pools
Seen from the air, elaborated
Like the endlessly earnest irradiations
Of naked mole rats, ants, and termite queens?
That whole shimmering shake
Of trash they generate and food
And water they take in are mere
Efficiencies, finely tuned. It's true.
Symbionts hunker down among them.
Aphid dogs that have had all the wolf
Bred out of them except the discontent,
And bark. But the greasewood blossoms. It's true.
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