Wednesday, April 8, 2009


1. My routine is varied and sundry
in that the constant change is routine.
Having a fear of the mundane
I eschewed mundane things 
and lived the life of an itinerant artist
and only later came to realize that all things
become ordinary and plain.

But I never tire of the drive north
the highway weaving tree and meadow to light
though I feel guilty as I think 
of the two gallons of fossil fuel spent each way, 
in order to bring poetry to children
on the day the 7th Antarctic ice shelf broke free.

The Wordie and Larsen ice shelves are gone.
The Wilkins shelf is calving into the Wedell Sea
like flakes of lead paint or glass shards the size of houses.
Ancient fossil ice laid down when dinosaurs were young.
Imagine an archipelago of icebergs the size of Manhattan.
This is how it begins. The mad race to the end.

But hey, a new species of krill was discovered.
The krill shall inherit our flooded cities.

2. Once I saw dinosaur tracks turned to stone
a lakebed far deep into the Canadian Rockies
preserved the story of a large three-toed creature
tracking across mudflats as quarter-sized rain or hail 
pummeled an ancient shore or mudflat, 
but the dinosaur headed east in terrible weather
steadfast, his tail leaving a long line, like a string,
as if I could pick it up and reel him in from the past
but the rules of mass of extinction were well engaged.


routine poem

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