what rises to greet us
we don’t inherit the earth from our ancestors,
we borrow it from our children.
– Native American Proverb
we watch as the heat climbs the thermometer
like a star at night, pulls the thin line with ease.
it is the colour of rain in a dream, metallic cold
glass, bottled so that it could give from a jar’s
lips to the lips of people who have not tasted
rain in months, whose children drink from cracks
in the street. it is not like the acid sometimes
gargled by the sky. where each hot wind exhaled
became the earth’s weak pulse, and somewhere,
the arctic bled, thinned deeper into the planet’s
skull. fading. that outside we could hear the moon
pull the water further; seal the beach like the coffin
of our own home.