The scene filled to suffocating. Too much toxic rain,
too much toxic sun. Toxin in every stone. The chaparral
dense and today very green, set bright against the heavy
clouds. Mourning, the world fills with tissues. Eat, cry, hide,
a memoirist tells us. Run, run, run the meteorologist
shares. The world swells and drains, burns and dries. Eat, sleep,
whine, advises the translator. Grief like that moment
when the concrete divorces from abstraction and little cutouts
remain. Shout, shout, rock out, says the painter. Gathering
like shapes made on dry concrete until it is wet concrete.
Under shelter on a coastal trail, I overlook patches of silver
sea, consider other permeable membranes, of shipping lanes,
silt composition, erosion. Eat, cuss, read, offers the hiker.
I look at eons, eras, mountains made from oceanic trench.
Hmm, hmm, mm the pianist mumbles as he plays. In earlier
centuries, historians wrote of seasons and cycles, harbors
and the slow fanning motion of sunflower fields. They hawk
hooks and order, the food chain and lies. I will never be
precise enough; tomorrow can’t be static. Eat, tweet, fuck,
writes the poet, flowers spilling out of her van.