TOO LATE TO CACHE

There is a prophecy among the
kelp beds where quarried slabs scarred by
generations of sharp claws run fluid in fear.
It is fulfilled like a hearing in the ear. The
mollusks in the mangroves shall weep
where the kelp goose pastured.

   Aggregated gems of broken shell shield the
steamer duck.    Mudskippers defend
walls of sand. The loggerheads stand on wisdom
impenetrable.    They are as locked in terror as
the swamp fish feeding submerged at cruising
speed among the roots.

   Twenty feet of death stalks playful
otter blood among the reeds. Poised for the
thermals economical turkey vultures sit it out.
   Sand hoppers wait beneath the surface hoping
not to be noticed.
The dinar is meaningless, the drachma dead.

    Chick-murdering egg-thieving dolphin gull human
counterparts, like Antarctic shorebirds chasing the
shags to make them drop their fish,
hammered swamps into deserts.

   The krona lies frozen in
dread. The rupee and the schilling screech overhead.
   A quetzal no longer remembers whose name it bears.


Copyright 1998, 2005 by Robert E. Romanelli PhD