Now the moment has gone it is dark
What is man that he should be infinite
The music of a deaf planet
W. S. Merwin
On the planet of infinite resources,
we dig and dig for gold,
for copper, bauxite, iron, coal.
We pump oil from a million wells;
everything we take replenished
by some benevolent hand. Our smoke
rises and fills the sky until birds
disappear. Then a wind cleanses
everything. Birdsong leaks into lusty trees.
Everyone owns everything – a house,
two houses, cars, trucks, and boats.
Our convoys bear down to the shore, clot
the sea with sails until we are cheek
to jowl, each in our own little ocean square.
There is nothing to give away, nobody
needs a thing. To wish is to have and to
have and to have until all our desires
pile up into pyramids of shining things.
We type and tweet, smart new phones
gleaming in our hands. We offer
opinions to a world without want,
warm in winter, cool in summer’s heat.
Our mouths hang open. See?
We are little birds waiting to be fed.