Tonight we embrace phantoms.
The ghosts of passenger pigeons
sing 60-cycle noise over our homes
Ancient plants combust in praise
unrolling waves of carbon to the sky
The lakes and rivers and wells
have graciously receded from our path
The ancient hills are wet mud
pouring through our fingers
The forests are a flame
searing our palms
The touch of every living thing
is matted wool and pieces of silver
What a shameful honor
to be priests of a temple in ruins
At its crumbling walls
we cannot imagine
Things we will never know
Something beautiful was broken
and we are haunted
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