small threaded spikes built for traction in a white plastic bag

the human settlement,
here,
is made of glass.

last week,
you were in a
large human settlement,
on a different stretch of coastline.

there,
the humans have
built their dwellings
out of glass.
they stack them
one atop another,
hundreds of soaring feet
into the sky.

the sky is often
mottled, sinuous
with cloud.

the glass undulates rigidly
into the air.

here,
the settlement is
low and it is
leaden
in color.
it makes
no attempt to
distinguish itself
from cloud.

it ought to be
soft. it ought to be
encircling.
but is
none of this, no,
it is made of
glass.

brittle,
harsh,
lurid
in its wetness.

the people in that
other settlement,
they
are numerous.
they
come from many
different places.
they buzz and they
hum.
some get so full of
bliss
that they turn to stone.
some are merely hosts
for the common human viruses
of commerce,
of hoarding.

but still
they buzz
and they hum.

you walked and
sat among them;
no they did not
talk to you, no
they did not really even
see you, but
they gave their buzzing
and humming to you,
just the same.

separate
and alone you
were amongst them,
rolling in their same sea.

here,
the people burrow
and bury themselves.
they pride themselves
on possession of
a home and so
they never leave it.
they cling to their
sparse social groups
and with gluttony
they protect them.

the mountains
here
are muscular and
round, svelte
and erotic.
the ocean is purple and languid.
the trees here are
impossible
in their lithe dancing.
the wind is godly,
everywhere
and nowhere
at once.

but the settlement
is brittle and
rigid, it is
shrieking and it is
silent.
the settlement
is made of glass.