When I have fears that we may cease,
another genus losing its single species,
then I lose speech.

Not that it’s likely, wholly,
or tomorrow, necessarily, but we know the road,
revolting with its bones.

And now that the pert, postapocalyptic
entertainment trades have trod the pocked
planet raw, wreaked every dystopian havoc, lopped

each greening branch imagination might yet
proffer to its dove. . . . We watch our midget
politicians wave their tiny arms. Jets

pepper forth. The wind is thick with them.