Don’t we have a duty to criticize?

Gavel to gavel hours and hours turning the page.
What we inkeep converts to personality and stunt-craft.
What we have to do and say are open discourse, what W. B. Yeats calls the bestial floor.
Please, have your way, fleets of stars, your options. Or have your composite gods do it for you.

(This soon after his last breath, is it safe to mention Yeats? or gods?) (Maybe not.
It’ll frighten no one into temperance.) And some of us are too polite to save the day.
But not all of us will unfriend you now or any time.

It’s natural, all a picnic in the wilderness.

The wilds... on all floors.