our taste

do understandings remain mutual in places of rest
where secrets give way to the moments they blessed?
from root to root, swinging, to monitor growth --
where no one asks questions of unspoken oath.
they plan for inaction, ten feet below earth
where static drowns silence to aid in thought birth.
and there is no sleeping to dream of proportion,
and there is no excess to create distortion.
each breath and each day, each glass of milk spilled --
we see only products these factories build
and seeping from objects, too small for our taste --
exhaust is a memory, time is replaced.