Cold Salad
In a cold winter thought
I grabbed the earth by its head of trees
and ripped upward to free the firmament
beneath.
No earthworms or other secrets.
Human figures entwined
in angered roots.
Limbs reeling from the intimacy of my seeing –
hands clutched fast
tools of the last human epoch:
greed, violence and blindness.
In this new Anthropocene,
I sip tea by my digital thinking machine,
powered by sun, wind and water.
Yet – my fingertips are flesh, and this binary soliloquy
strains me from my past. It shakes the trees so holy,
the old and many me
falter from their roots into a waiting colander.
I plan to rinse them,
and lay them down in a bed of greens.
At Shore
Oceans dissemble upon shores reprising time –
as when we first crawled into ornaments upon her,
and her languorous orchestra of winds carried us to now.
Eventually, I will lie on this beach with erased breathing.
My salty lungs upon the tongue of thinking.
Thinking that I will blow myself back across the Atlantic,
back in time to Italy and Siberia before that,
before human,
until I get what I feel my consciousness paid for –
a reason.
All species of tress formed hair upon this round head.
Earth – all over me, I will wash off with water.
Sightless
Summer in the ice-land, where the
Warmth of season light is overmatched by
Winter’s resentment.
My arm? Dead to frostbite. Guided by your hand
As a rudder for feet, while you count forward
Faster in the direction of the Sun –
As a place we could arrive to Sauna my blindness –
Eat, drink and listen to the continental melt
Smile with the swell of the ocean below.
My organ-heart gathers a silhouette of Antarctica.
Growing smaller with every unfulfilled step.
Distant or closer upon your intent.
I see the white blanket recede, so that we may curl naked upon Verdant Again.
Your arguments of science walled against my wishes – as you walk me
Across this landscape. A swallowed Frankenstein.