bindle
brigand
confusion
debris
dissent
dusk
dwelt
fell
disfigure
elaborate
frontier
grizzle
imperium
industrious
invisible
limb
locust
lynch
migration
oak
occupant
pantomime
passersby
perilous
refugee
repose
scoff
sluggish
sycamore
venture
The Pines are all felled.
The Elms are all disfigured.
The fell builders have become like locusts.
Wood and earth are industriously disappeared
from every direction we are able to look and the
water is undrinkable.
What are we going to do about this dusk
falling among the sycamores and the oaks?
Where are we to remain in repose or reluctantly
set down our bindle in all this debris?
What is at stake for us, the grizzled occupants
of this limb of the world as we
rotate in confusion among the scoffing crowds?
That they are temporarily sluggish does not
mean we cannot be lynched.
We are presently invisible because we do not pantomime
our heresy in the face of convention,
or elaborate in dance and song our total
dissent with the demands of the imperium.
If we, who once dwelt in calm and happy houses
ourselves are refugees, how long can it be
until these city dweller passersby
will be forced or driven to follow us
along this perilous migration?
By then we will have moved from this busy
and settled place of strangers.
Toward what country can we hope to venture?
Toward what home do we lead the way?
In what frontier is it possible for us
to stake a legitimate claim?
How are we to avoid becoming the
brigands and displacers we are fleeing?
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