Golden Spirits

Dane Mainella


There are no nature smells here.
It smells like vibrations and noise,
Like friction and lives scraping
By each other.
Orange traffic cones do not taste sweet
Or run down your chin and drip, drip
On your shirt.

We’ve taken what is wild,
What is brown and pulsing,
And given it a metal crutch
That it doesn’t need.

There is a reason you can’t see stars
In the city. We’ve brought them down
to our level: put them in glass cages
and forgotten about the awe of light,
the insane fear of living in darkness, blind to
an entire world rustling around you.
I guess we tend to do that
To things that shine and make us feel warm.