What Fresh Heresy is This

I heard you say, you in the fine suit last night on my tv,
that the world is turning faster now, and so I looked out
across the horizon to see if it might be true,

to see if the moon was crossing the night sky in the span
of an hour, to see if the sun had reset our clock after
4.5 billion years.

I will have to wait for spring to know if the bud unfurls
in fewer days now, the finch’s eggs hatch in moments.
The word you used was

progress, the march of it, like an army on its way across
a scorched earth, and there you are in your fine suit, no
ash on you at all.

So much destruction is part of the plan, all for the good
of your economy, and what fresh heresy is this to ask
for whom the economy is good for.

It is figment and figure of speech to lay blame on the ever
turning world for decisions made in 43rd floor boardrooms
and on the back nine

in Scottsdale, and we’re all schooled in figures though
you do your best to confuse it all with speech.
So who do we trust

now that our eyes tell us lies, the arc of the moon looks
the same as before, the tide comes in, the tide goes out,
but the speed

of your wheeling has left us bobbing in the wake, flotsam
in a sea of backwash and runoff, where even the fish
will no longer swim.

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