"Take note; and even as I speak these words, do you transmit them in your turn to those who live the life that is a race to death." ~ Beatrice to Dante, Purgatorio 33, 52-54 Beloved, each day the waters of the earth rise a little more. At the polar ends, they're flushed with heat pushing up from ocean currents that shear away sheets of ice. We still take what we can. In the midst of such rapid dwindling, each heated afternoon we uncoil the garden hose and train its mouth upon the small, parched planets we've created in pots. Every mouth could gladden for what passes into it and greens it with breath. On the coast, the dense berm of mangrove forests thins; their breathing roots drown in too much water. Yesterday, I too felt like I was drowning. The years were rushing too far ahead of me, and I could barely remember how to hold them, how once they held me as if all the light in the world was new. Stars burn. We could be glaciers adrift in a slow-moving river. Beloved, still I look for anchor as the sky thickens with signs and uncertain ciphers. There are moments, as when you take my face into your hands.