Directionless direction, magnetic fields

at the poles,

and ice is sliding

Off shelves, in shelves, in sheaves,

to hear them tell it,

or it’s not,

to hear them tell it.

These fields are fallow,

Their waves have ebbed,

and this vessel rides the inefficacious swells of

a new neap tide.

“Them” is the New Orthodoxy, “They” write the New Creed,

The Covenant’s Ark is a stream of

Capricious currents.

No timber, no stone, no timbre.

Can you taste the Communion of a billion thoughts consecrated by a billion clicks

and a billion posts,

and a trillion bytes and bits and bites?

Can you mainline the serum?

Can the sacred suspension of leading, guiding colloids flow, where all are one and

One is all, and

God is dead and the Übermensch is too?

Have you heard the rumbling herd?

The cattle are near, and they’re lowing,

and the ground beneath your Cuban heels whipsaws

and quakes.

Does your heart thunder in thrall to the pounding

of stampeding hooves?

Saddle up!

Ride with incalculable head along the fissures

and runnels of their blind and headlong rustle.

The herd mind is the hive mind,

and it’s best to mind your betters.

Currents.

They’re there and they’re

Powerful,

but

Obsequious

and nearly

Invisible.

From the vantage point of your

Porthole in the hull,

Detect them by the swaying of

the seagrass.