Acres of fire, forests disassembling.
A girl has just crossed the ocean
in a ship powered by solar panels
and hydro generators. Every Friday
when she conducts her Liebestraüme,
you can hear the cries of whales
and glaciers floating like placards
above the crowd; she is their standard-
bearer. Bankers peer from glass
towers, pretending they are merely
checking if food trucks have arrived
at the lobby. They click teaspoons
against cups secretaries bring
into the room. Light glances off
hundreds of panes of glass,
as well as off external elevators;
but can you see this brittle world
whorled in a snail's carapace?
I don't know how many varietals
of coffee there are in the Americas,
if we can still use words like
capsicum and salt and ferrous oxide.
Wading birds still come to the edge
of the river, though I can't
remember when it last rained.
In winter, ghosts of foxes streak
across the meadow: their pelts thin,
their voices rubbed like kindling.

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