As a child I tossed all my imaginary friends out the window of a fast moving train because I wanted to feel my fist break open as I freed them, as each of their bodies whipped against the siding, their insides: snow dispersing into wind, their little heads rolling across the yellow plains. Because I believed they would return. But none have since. Not even the ones I didn’t love.
Touring the Earth Gallery
Chicks—dead in a once teeming reef
and a mother bird
scouring ghostly coral.
We dozed, broke our machines.
Extreme heat, intensifying rain
will bring the island states’ collapse,
a fast decline of sea grass.
Our time period is one of
glacial isostatic adjustment.
In the third chamber, dust
daily rearranged into pastoral scenes:
beach strewn with radioactive crustaceans—
“The Woman at Repose
with the Sea Behind Her.”
Note that it is not the woman’s
figure that is kinetic
but the structures above her:
skeleton of a Dodo bird.
There, where a poet scrapes
her tail across tundra—
see the sand blowing over
her last regret.
She dips her quill into a pigment jar,
scrawls her forecast across the clouds:
Smacked into glass
that resembled the sky—a sparrow
sleeps on its side in the dirt,