What’s left to say (with audio)

	With apathy in the air all around for water
	what good could it even do to speak out
	to say anything to a misheeding audience
	divided in spirit by theories and situations
	only half understood——at best, often less?
	  Does it matter to speak or to have this capacity
	of sensible sound giving voice to our masters,
	these electrical pulses buried beneath bone?
	  What’s it matter to say anything, when already
	the air weighs itself against ever more lead,
	weighted by the ceaseless chatter of heads for egos
	empty of thought save the next running lines displayed,
	the pitch of their voice and its tone, an accordant face
	smiling for sillies, pursed lips for serious stories,
	brows somber-pressed for a novel Death’s latest advent?
	  Forests in lesser stands breathe less, exhale less.
	Are there any words at all worth saying?
	Only three: shame on us. Then several more:
	Shame on us, we sapient creatures, gifted beings,
	literal wizards and witches, healers, all gods we:
	this is what we’ve become? Who could stand unashamed?
	  Placed here by none, we grew here into ourselves
	on this miraculous globe, an orbited orbiting thing,
	a place of verdant untamed magic, breaking now
	an unlimited space limited by the logic of spheres
	without edge, yet filled with geologic wonders,
	where the tumescent surf meets risen earth, or
	chained valleys are separated by arduous peaks, or
	that line once stable within which fickle flakes
	withdrew at sun’s approach, beyond which
	no sun has ever approached: all water now.
	  Now this Eden of ours slips from under our feet
	for dragons’ brooding, the pleasure of few, and shame,
	shame pours from the sky overhead for dashing rain.

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