Don’t I fear this Gordian knot’s invictus grip
wickedly woven, wickedly thick wound threads?
El Nino’s therms? Patricia’s whip?
La peste! Les marteau sans maître!
There is no hope for us to unravel it,
just our own hours of onerous unraveling.
Could it be that we, like Alexander,
face one option the option that won his crown?
Do we cut the threads of the climate with a brutal blade,
lost to brutal baseness, too base to care?
Of course I fear this Gordian knot,
for before it all good feels forfeit to naught.