Planet Earth will enter a new era of its history, cheerfully called by some the Anthropocene,
a time for and all about our one species alone. I prefer to call it the Eremocene, the Age of Loneliness . E.O. Wilson
Trust me
I’m here the one
who’s lived so long and hard
born in the quietest sea
changing under meteors
and lava in my loins is
wise rivers that run run out
with fossils buried in mud
I make all your dreams
all your dolls and warriors
possible you will crave
each day each day
with your sentences
your searches and endless lists
but you can’t squash me
Or the fat mosquitoes
the woodlice the cockroaches
that’ll eat the baker the brewer
the financial advisor soon a bed
for mushrooms and moss
and who will own anything
when lights in trees burn
better than stars and finches fall
with broken wing and empty
crop bees that buzz
can’t be heard in loud struggles
for power monarchs beaten
on roads without milk
where every one of them
down and dead is you not me
