Look at the sad people barely putting up
with the flight patterns of pollen.
Look at them troubled by one more
irritation in their lives.
They will be the last ones standing
when the great forests are felled
and the imperious sunflowers are finally uprooted
and the petulant grasses are tamed to law-abiding highways.
Some poet will rise up to speak on behalf
of the Bornean orangutan and the Ili pika
and some Hollywood director will find the great composer
of metaphors and the camera will worship
her fingernails and eyelashes before he lets her fade
behind the closing credits. He will whimper
in the darkness, and like us, stumble towards
the nearest pharmacy and run his hands
pensively over the boxed nasal sprays
knowing how difficult to read real estate reports
when your eyes are stone and gravel and how
difficult, too, listening to impenitent developers,
styling their bejeweled class rings and tie-clips,
whisper property, property, property.