It’s the fall of this century’s crisis,
little surprise bulldozers and backhoes
stand in puddles between idle i-beams,
Cold ripples not yet frozen.
Remedies are experimental, ineffective,
as unpredictable as cold war
in dark places and pants pockets,
constricting the axis of global stability.
And we welcome winter, to come and go,
to bring a new spring of hope
where sharks have little share
in the blue world ocean of a wide-open mouth.
Where one lifeboat fills wing to wing,
creates the colorband of one flag.
When all who are willing can row.
When all who are rowing will rhyme.
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