The hunger of your multitudes
has desecrated the forest.
Now my words blast the land
as a relentless sun
chaotic energy
squandered on the plains of creation.
Urban denizens
you do not know
wild savannah magic—
the harnessing of fire
in a lone kernel
of wheat or timothy.
You have clawed away
the fragile, fragrant shroud
a deep canopy tangled with epiphytes
or the vast sweep of bluebonnets.
And left the gathered cortex naked
to the elements
of my raging cosmos.
The dreams die of exposure
wither in my own heat.
My tongue spits confusion
and I turn the dust
for a final chapter.
Nov. 11, 1997
All written material and images are ©1997-2001 Van Waffle. This page updated Feb. 11, 2001.
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