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The future has no Indians,
No Pacific coast.
Its mines are planets,
Its fire stars.
Huge colonies hover
Like worshippers,
Arms outstretched,
While galleons sail
On solar wind.
There are forty quintillion
Amazon jungles
Per single, sated termite,
And the only things
People tend to run out of
Are numbers.
But far out at the edges,
In ships that cube the speed of light,
A few daring scouts
Search desperately
For Indians.
All poems: copyright by
Nicholas Gordon
Free scrapbook poems
permission to use
provided by the author. |
