Who will the crisis awaken?
(mother, the earth slumbers)
Must we always have an emergency first?
(here is sinew; here is birch)
Oh accident-prone nations
The nuclear secrecies summon some crux.
(these twists & loops, lithe & dense)
How the conspired plots swell, clots
On graph paper, missiles in storage
(this is a glass house & these are its walls,
such intertwined things growing fertile & lucid)
Is a Silent Spring prophesized,
All water/air/earth some sudden stigmata?
(enter the mystic, soft warm winds buffing
hallways, gently bending about flesh)
Who are the paper-pushers?
How do cogs open?
Holes, holes, the intricate lab—–
(there is the motion of pearl divers,
tropic fiestas, the sweet graceful pleasure
of hanging sheets)
Is this the last adolescence, parochial
Society’s strange, short-sighted but
(green fills senses, green fire,
green blazes; feel the bright blinding
thick flash of moss covering these walls)