Bare ruined drive-thru, naked to the waist
where once rude office-workers stopped to bark
their burger breakfast orders with such haste –
away to work, no time to stop and park
or contemplate this birch which bends to bless
at dawn and dusk each anxious passerby
consumed with how a world might be out-guessed.
Invisible beneath this light-shy sky
ash-streaked in the time of consummation –
Empires’ end, the death of Dream-Time days,
watching all the worlds’ disintegration,
now smashed upon the rocks by waves of hate.
Silence scorned, good money’s had by speech –
and who has time to learn what birch trees teach?