Empire tras imperio post imperium

Prefectures of forest fires
reflect on LA tar pits.

Dioceses of sand, coral reefs
dyed, bleached in Florida shallows.

Provinces of tropical valleys
pop under pyrexic tentacles.

Capitals of heavy petroleum
crack the earth with steam.

For under that spray-tan shale,
our crown as coin as aircraft
fevers for a bump of the finest
crude to pump its varicose veins,

the blood from the tip of
the Southern Cone, The Andes,
bunches of bananas stamping
branches from Costa Rica to Belize,

the land grabs north of the Río
Grande were never big enough,
whether via canal, gash of salt,
ē Carthāgine a Cartagena-cleaved Panama.

Capitals for grain, the capitol
fiddles temple columns aflame.

Provinces of desert gold
pitter to silphium dirges.

Dioceses, once seas of murmillones,
boil to broken coliseums.

Prefectures of murex purple
empty shells in Tyrō and Mexico.

I originally published this poem on Substack, but looking back on it it seems to be (and seems it will remain) rather relevant.