antiquated

ancient wood is warm, remembers
years of sunlight through open
windows, rays dancing with the
little dust motes. a waltz of time,
waiting for the window to close
or sundown. ancient metal bends,
acquieses to the will of the hands
that clasp its edges and demand
a different shape. the fingerprints
are left in mud, in dirt, all
around the edges of the coin that
is dropped again, cursed, for
valueless stature. ancient gods
lie bleeding now, first dormant
then disrespected. thor's hammer
fell to earth on april 18, 1906:
freyr's bounty was extinguished
on july 5, 1996. but jesus christ
rose from the dead for our sins,
and paper money works just fine
for us, and we like the lines of
steel table legs and glass countertops
better than the warmth of wood.

in siberia, the nights are so cold
that even microorganisms can't
find shelter. the moon reflects
off endless miles of snow, and ice,
so that the whole country seems
one long mirror. and crawling around
on the surface of the glass
are little men in layered fur and
distinct wool, heavy with their
women and children and vodka;
sometimes their feet sink so
deeply into the mirror that
they leave footprints on the
silver lining. so that when
stellar freyja descends from her
glowing lunar resort, to pick up
her mirror and be reflected
in this modern era--
her face is pockmarked, scarred,
acned with little men's footprints
who have breathed her crystal ozone
and clawed her perfect glass.