We live among less
Than ever before
What was abundance
In shadows
Or stares blankly at us
In the sun
Each year each month
Each week each day
There is less
The radio transmission
Crackles faintly
The man says Evanston
When he grew up
The beaches were full
Of seabirds
Pools swam with crawdads
The yards had insects
So many buzzing
Burrowing swooping
A snail a snail
When was the last time
Anyone saw a snail
In their garden
He asks
(A friend told me he saw
Some slugs at least)
His radio voice fading
Then coming back
You looked into the lake
It was clear
There were trout
Hooked snout salmon
Passing each other
All of this he said
And I heard
On the college radio station
Driving back from Ben's
After hours in a room
With modular synths
And repeating guitar figures
I read from a book
Into the microphone
Of a journey to India
Travelers seeking ecstasy
Through the DMT
Toad serum bufo
A man had brought
They arrived at caves
In the side of a mountain
Before taking the medicine
They immersed
In a clear pool
The song ended
I stopped reading
What happened when
They took the medicine
I do not know
For David Goldstein
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