We have reached a point of indefinite stability,
where nothing tips, nothing falls,
a balance that is not grace but fatigue.
Baudelaire’s ennui sits heavy in the lungs,
a slow suffocation in the sly air of plenty.
The world arranges itself into pixels and packages,
the weightless drama of next-day delivery,
the fever of conspiracies whispered into glowing screens,
an agitation so shallow it collapses as it stirs.
Even the storms cannot dislodge us,
not the heat of oceans or the smoke of burning ranges,
not the hard right rising,
nor the thinning air between us
as human scale erodes into networks and numbers.
The tedium holds like iron,
not to be shattered by crisis or revelation,
but endlessly, endlessly endured.