In a strong box buried
under a Norway maple
brought from Europe
when they first came here
they keep the old education
they refuse to acknowledge
in daylight. Knowledge
they leave to you to hold
as they smash away at your hands,
ways of thought they turned off
and stashed in the box they claim
holds so little that it’s not worth opening.
Anyway, the box isn’t yours, they tell you.
The box holds Atlanteans, aliens,
Templars and old ones from
everywhere else but here. Go forth and be
mascot, crisis actor, crystal-waving
smudge idol for a generation of fakes.
When we need you, we’ll let you know.
When the box rises from the ground
like a coffin displaced in the next great flood,
we’ll let you know. When the Norway maple
dies and falls upon us, we’ll let you know.
When it’s too late, you’ll figure it out.
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