I went looking for the wild one, the howler, the vatic tramp.
The one for whom the wounded hills are body burns, whose
blood is stained with the old love-wine of poet and earth,
warrior poet, slinging battle flak out at the static
shattering polite conversations everywhere.
I looked in the anthologies, listening for echoes,
traced for signs in the quarterlies, magazines, best of’s.
I learned it’s been a good year for poetry. Grants and awards
keep coming in. Contests and prizes are proliferating,
The wise grey consensus counsels a return to the classics.
Meanwhile, poor scientist holds extinction
in a palm full of numbers
with nothing but data
to howl with.