No alternative now

Let’s grow a forest and hide in it.
We will stay there for years,
our clothes dropping from us in leaf shapes
in the dark crunchiness
where we copulate quickly like foxes
and crap standing, ready to run.

After a while reporters will arrive
but we will be up a tree,
bearded and matted.

Puffballs bloat in the areas where we urinate:
they are delicately luminescent,
buzz in the dark like candle lit, drizzly planets.

Shivering, curled together, one night
I smell death about to bloom in you –
next thing, you don’t want your hazel nuts,
can’t pull yourself onto our branch.

From then on, until it happens,
every night I dream we drive sharp cars
and eat from tins.
We will never get this life out of our system.