One Word

Over six thousand
languages
may not adapt
in our short time –
under these
fleet-to-melt days –
to define
our recent misprize

We may never find
a finite word
to headline this
imminent collapse –
of my land –
of your land –
this land’s made
for you and me

Our recourse
won’t be in songcraft
or in bleeding
apologies
to those who look
at this – from then –
and those who left us
clean legacies

On either side
of our personal abyss
we will still tilt
and lever that width
in which we will fit
our half-life guilt
of consumerism
and thrilling greed

We old men of grey
and women in beige
have broken
everything –
without a word
to our kids
without an apology –
we don’t do sorry