—with a line by Fred Marchant
There have always been storms.
Earth born from storm.
The landscape, a particular haunting.
I flew toward the epicenter
after many fled. Met
flooded canals, felled trees. Tumors.
All kinds of tumors.
My mind can’t comprehend
moving off planet.
No greenery or sunlit fields.
My language wreaks of blame
until I try to imagine a world
completely merciful.
Some days there is a blurring.