I have been driven of late to explore the crash-site of the post-modern, where, I suspect, the nascent shoots of re-enchantment may be discerned. This is one of a series of poems which seeks to illumine the remains--in this case the collapse of a weary technocrat at day’s end, set in a culture devoid of meaning. Centuries from now, what sense might an archaeologist make of these ever-diminishing cycles of meaning? Indeed, what sense can we make of them today?
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