washed out

like so many washed out weeds
rained into the mud, blazed by the fire sun
I am one, thirsty and drowning

all the Metropark is one living being
trees, thicker than my body
ants, tiny, black, like marching raisins
crawl and tickle my wrist

I could have been a lover in another century
swooning over the natural world
a Muir or McKibben
but it is too late in this one

some process of change
hurtling us out of this existence
quicker than we can recycle starships
to carry us to another

where, morally wounded, we might plant ourselves
like so many washed out weeds
or germs escaping viruses
as if it was our good karma
or our pedigree, or our privilege