when I’m gone

the smokestacks will still excrete their acid

and erode the ozone like candle wax over rock

but maybe someday the eminently practical, monochromatic smokestacks

(which are yet appropriate as always)

will taste their first hint of nuance

of variety 

of real life

with a whiff of cracking concrete

and crawling vines

like candle wax over rock.

will they know that it’s beautiful?

will they believe that the cold glory of machine

in its broken-down, malfunctioning, stalling, dormant immortality

is naturally superior to the instantaneous superficiality of life?

there is no chance at symbiosis

but maybe they can be convinced to be lively

like rocks are convinced to be candle wax.