Silence! The world is rotting. The buzzard, freest of birds, Floats without flapping, dines without fee— “The falcon cannot hear the falconer,” Still others, with wider wings, Follow not by sight but flavor. But once this country had a master, And a name: New Spain. Ichabod! “Muebles de estilo colonial,” Cheap and nasty. Ichabod! Ichabod! “Tan lejos de Dios,” as Diaz put it, “Tan cerca a los Estados Unidos.” Here lords and ladies hawked and sang. Here placid peasants put in corn And lived to pick it in the fall, Here Madrid’s silver seal was law. And you said: “Struggle! Iron!—” And so on. In the future, we all Are Protestants. We work at a Nonprofit, we shop at Rainbow, Our daughter is at Stanford— All. Each human in every location. And for this end, which remains Through long, savage, solemn course Not just possible but inevitable, An egg or two has had to break. Liars. I have eyes. I have seen the future: Feral peons in filthy tanktops, sullen, Half-drunk, any Sunday’s mob To bark some lie or vote for some thief. So muscle to the kite’s nose Yeast-brown is the first claret, Bone to his beak an obstacle, Brains a bisque behind the eye.