One half
of one percent
of us

owns
ninety percent

of the wealth.

Wetlands stalked
by camera eyes
in dying days

brace for a long,
long night.

In the howl
of winded reeds,
of feral manes,

in the thrilled-to-be-dying
blood

of rivers running
though stone --

petrified years

wait tongue-less
for the life

that defers
lies,

and die.