by Ben Pincus
The ferns wait for the flat light of afternoon.
I wait for you to reveal yourself completely.
Each separate leaf endangered among its kind,
bulldozers blazing away at a lopsided hill.
Nothing short of nature can make this thing work out.
There’s more to petroleum than epic bad taste.
Probably we really should try something else;
lounging our way through this afternoon of our lives.
It might be simpler if we were safely abed, wallowing
under forested sheets, suppressing our environmental nightmares.
But the pillow has never been a safe place for me, hunched as I am
over an ancient typewriter, ever-reflexive, caught in the act.