On Being Useful after the Apocalypse

I have no voice, really
Not that makes a sound.
Not a trill or a traffic, not a hog or a whirl (whorl?)
No buzz or heat. But this is what it is.
Fantasy is a mud masq:
The hush of a breeze on the grass, the grazing sheep-bleats.
Manure and fennel suffocate it in summer,
now the cold air evacuates and condenses.
Easily brittle, piney undergrown afterbirth
A lilac thinks it’s
a piece of blue sky
not tattered
but carefully fringed.
And that’s just what it is.