the world was the same way we left it
the desert’s fissures cracked open
our way of knowing how to speak
our names in multiple extinct languages
the birds surveyed the remaining strips
of forest and flew back into abstraction
leaving behind a wet smear of orange
that faded over time and became a sunset
the wind followed our limbs and turned
them into the masts of grounded ships
wove our hair into sails that creased
beneath the pressure to catch everything
we had previously dismissed as ripples
in space-time where do we go now
that the sky has steamrolled our questions
what is the best shortcut to the nearest
medusa garden whose baritone assurances
of the horizon’s bloodless monochrome
can we metabolize into creation myth
why do our songs all sound like seabirds dying
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