Plain American Language

I cut a sliver/of WC William's finger
and placed it inside/my philosophy...

Monday, December 9, 2013

Today the world is bright,
is drier than most other days: it is fifty degrees
in February, almost fourty eight in the shade--
the cool breath of the wind
so thoughtful on most days in springtime
whispers in haiku syllables
five, then seven, then five accounts of how
global warming will not end, that we will suffer,
and the glaciers will melt
and I will die and everyone will die
but we will be warm, and our shoes will sink
into the loving earth that cushions us,
cradles our bodies as we lie onto it,
breathing in the breath of eternal summer
and honeysuckles and disappearing bees
and bears kept in museums and poetry
kept in museums, locked in glass cases like
so much fruit in the grocery stores
and the grocery stores filled with bright, beautiful
yellows, pinks, purples and oranges,
vegetables and leaves will forever be green
and green will be the flag because there will
be no nations, there will only be earth
and water and the few people
who populate this world,
as we dangle our shoes over the edge
trying to remember what winter
used to mean when it took us over in February.

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