from Pre-humous Arboretum
All disease of intellect, of will
icicled, snapped off
your uncircumcised mind.
Why narrate your death or the ozone’s
cracked egg, intelligence oozing
into broken stars stars? Too many lines
left of the glacial poem drags its Gobi
in the wakes of
ever-smaller Napoleons and Pyrrhus
of Epiruses, Latin
American junta through fat drug
clashes and these three
those dirty-grey cardinals
short, stout bill, red crest and wings—
in these rugged yucca dry (
when (the clash-smoke (floats out of form
clarifying things) ) )
as a document.
Why imperialise yourself?
Celebrate yourself, said the Whitman.
And in parentheses: no one else will!
You are—and luckier—by the world
anonymised, art lustrated
in the fire of western snow
on the ghost planet of red-gartered ragwort.
Why look into the dipping square-mile of oyster grass?