At this end of time
we mistrust the dramatic in poetry
we mistrust the dramatic in life.
The terrible irony is that
the world is in fact burning.
We must call it out.
We must celebrate all that is passing,
all that is dying.
In the name of all the gods
we no longer belief in
we must cry out in strident anger.
I have always strived
for subtlety in my verse,
not from pride or arrogance
but from humility in face of the nameless.
But that time is gone
now is the time to shout.
To lose millions of acres
to lose the wombats that borrow
under the fallen trees.
When numbers become so big
it is hard to comprehend
but in my remaining life,
I have not the time to walk across those 40 million acres
to acknowledge physically the destruction
we have caused.
I must scream