Caveat: Poem #993

in lines of glass or wood or concrete
horizons drawn in golds and blacks
a grid, a geographic spreadsheet
dead trees on hills like painted cracks
the cityscape reveals confusion
amid its planless, hot profusion
of means of movement, high and low
of will to commerce, fast and slow
the hearts of people all inventing
a way to make their neighbors slaves
or if not that, then find their graves
and likewise... stepwise... too preventing
our nature's hoped-for forceful claim
against our blind hubristic shame