Long Drained Terminal Moraine

The landscape carries its marks
Of people coveting it
Or bits of it, or products

It could or once did provide.
Even those who only asked
For basics, food and water,

Who didn’t slash, rip, or mine,
Left their tracks and debitage.
So spare yourself delusions

That you’ve left the nets of dust
And ambition behind you,
Bivouacked by this barbed-wire.

Still, you’re not reminded here,
By handsome architecture
Or the finest museums,

How rich inequalities
And extractive cruelties
Gave rise to the loveliness

That now attracts the tourists.
Dry grass rustles at your knees.
You’re the next ghost on the breeze.