All of these hours and the ice sheets melting into soup,

the world now one-third plastic, beach sand like Beta and Atari,

phantom erections, phantom voices, a 2000 year-old ghost forest

uncovered by rough seas. There is an unusual swarm

of tsunamis fucking the seafloor stirring violet light

 into the atmosphere, and scientists are working on a new banana.

Do we really need another banana?

All of these hours spent preparing myself, the washing in the bath,

 the layering of jasmine and gardenia emollients,

the shaving and sculpting of my vagina wishing it were sweet as St. Germaine

though I have been told that it smells like wood smoke,

relentless, the days, each one a gift, and the world is getting windier.

That’s what the papers are saying. That, and a little girl was found

 dead in Nebraska, hidden in the woods half a mile from her back door

an earless stuffed rabbit and what kind of body under the locust flowers,

 all of these hush-hush hours collecting in the atom of the atom, I don’t understand,

 it’s sad, and if you tell me you know where I am coming from you are lying.

In the hinge between inhale and exhale—- ammonia and salt,

 infinitesimal death. Final gulp of chill air, what are you like?