Dumpsters filled to brim, buckthorn needs a trim;
Technicolor oil circles the drain, ozone alert brings the pain.
Seagulls and cigarette butts  adorn big box parking lot’s winter morn.

Mourning, the Idealist hits the gas, wants to drive where what’s past
flies by the window, clocks running in reverse—
death in the delivery room, birthed in a hearse.

Reverse the flow, reroute the river to north from south,
Unbuild the dams, unsilt the river mouths.

Give voice to rude Nature—an Indian whoop;
climate change defanged, gone the feedback loop.
Land becomes “unimproved,” trees built from houses,
Animals outnumber us, men become mouses.

Hunter and hunted now equal rivals,
Hunting for dinner a game of survival—
May the best species win, and often it’s not us—
The Idealist is eaten awaiting the State Street bus.