Spilt Milk Poem by Brian Rihlmann

Our words
are bridges,
or walls,
and sometimes,
guns, bullets
and blood.

Ghosts of things
pulling our strings
with spectral fingers.

We dance
a grisly waltz
circling a whirlpool.

A vacuum of abstraction
at its center.

Adrift in the virtual
our feet estranged
from the earth.

Our hearts
from our neighbors.

A big brained
clever mutation,
bringer of gadgets
and extinction.

But spilt milk
to the cosmos.