Ecology

In a land where birds are born without tongues,
children know them by the slight flagging
of their wings against buildings
which they distinguish
from wind through leaves
at a very early age.
The conditions of knowledge
are as precise as evolution.
The drowsy leopard knows
which press of brush means danger
and there are signs at the onset of tyranny:
the fourth generation cop is replaced
by a high-stepping turtle with a vicious snap,
strangers grow sluggish and refuse to stop,
the collective head droops,
the time clock at work is coded
and written up, and your lover
dresses in corners where you can’t see.
Only man can survive by ignoring so much.
Some say this is a blessing.
Some say it is our burden.
Some say it is a paradox,
a thing to be talked about
in cafes and bedrooms
while waiting for the oppressive heat
to abate enough for love.
Some whisper it is our distance from God
that allows us to perish without perishing.

In our land, the lonely and compulsive
who’ve sought beyond their field of voice—
these are the tongueless
flapping at steel.
But where are the children?
I dreamt once that the depth
in which we dream
was a common soil out of view
where our roots entwined.
And the next night I could see
some roots were diseased.
I woke frightened and caring
about my rival’s dream
about the health of what we hope for.