If by your art, my greater good, you have
Brought the plain waters a little closer, then rejoice.
The sky, it seems, burns with the smell of roasts,
Such that the sea, never to be denied a feast,
Salts us to taste. O, I have suffered
The distance to those who first suffered—islands
Who were, no doubt, the very explosion of
The world twice over. O, we can sooner make
A joyful cataclysm! than roll back your commits.
You planned to the ends of the earth, not to
Have a plan at all until, good news,
Such death of intent becomes space itself that
Even the slightest aim turns heads.
Why have you stolen upon us so? You come not
Like final straw: the end of ways
Should eclipse sun and moon at once, and
The dust of chemical weapons at horses’ feet
Long before clouds fall through earth; all trees
Outnumbered by soldiers of fortune; entitlement fainted,
Longing for what it already had; yea, the rain
Should have replaced the air one-for-one,
Light and constant as heaven: but you have come
Without question; and have gathered
The weather as data, which, left unchecked
Is larger than life: veins on my arm like mountains
On a map, I’m in a play of mistaken identity
With the whole world.