DEATH Poem: Found Poem, by Ryan Mattern

Elites have
vaccines, links to an Instagram,
bins for skulls,
food, water, and shelter.

I was arrested for the creation of a lasting paradigm
which was renamed flesh magic.
The body recognized
milk’s temperature.

How much they like
counting coup
on sun-sprawled
tech moguls.

There are echoes of her magnificent dirty tricks.
The woman shapes
guards for
the oil wells,

tosses grenades into a population of elk,
disturbing trees
glowing with
relentless civilizing.