Property, an abstraction that we abhor concerning prairies, rivers, and humans, perhaps everything. Fleas on the elephant’s rump, claiming title to the tip of its tusk. The air we breathe, the light and liquid that ricochets off our skin, the curling leaf. Everything of value is a temporary union of things that cannot be owned. But what of this poem and the piano music that I am listening to? Unbodied, they circulate. How then, can we defend such promiscuous artifacts from the mouth of the hungry machine? Does gravity or the earth own the atmosphere? Does the red apple own its redness?