Clouds
David Russell
In chroniclers’ minds
Past wars all went full circle
Making great urban filth destroy itself
So that the finest flowers and shrubs
Could sprout at random.
And birds, in exultation
Or happy in their ignorance
Made rills of melody
Now man had passed them by.
But now, with ice and poison
For one full year enthralled, embalmed.
And after that, growth’s circle
Jarred shuddering in mid-turn
Can even a worm
Or an amoeba celebrate?
