As if the underworld were breaking through,
lake beds from Uzbekistan to California
emerge relinquishing their litter—
suicides, the murdered, the accident-
prone who one time slipped beneath
the water’s edge and stayed.
Now unlivable fragments of the globe
are being mapped for us on television—
expanses sectioned off in red, their edges
stretching forward day by day
like an invading army brandishing the sun.
As I watch, I round up every tendril
of my hair and anchor it high, off
my constantly damp neck, wondering
what has gone now. Perhaps the dogs
of Chernobyl can be of help. As the children
of the abandoned and deserted, they changed,
then changed again, maybe finally
having learned to thrive on poison.
Outside, the bricks are sizzling.