PANTOUM FOR THE SPIRAL
It’s coming down somewhere. A mouth
glut with rainwater learns nothing but waste.
The old world struggles to climb out of
a kind of furnace, spiraling as each new hurricane
glut with rainwater, leaves nothing but waste—
the knot of names, missing or worse, their likeness
akin to a fern, as spiraling as each new hurricane
that promises to keep reuniting us with the dead.
Think not of the names, missing or worse, their likeness
fractals in ways we can scarcely imagine
& promises to keep reuniting us with the dead.
Storms, like the ocean, carry ruthless memories.
Fractals, in ways we can scarcely imagine,
come home to roost, rest assured. The first of the dispossessed
storm like the ocean, carry ruthless memories
shooting up like smoke signals from a fire
come home to roost. Rest assured, the fist of these dispossessed
is coming down—somewhere: a mouth
shooting up smoke signals from a fire
the old world struggles to climb out of.
—from Poets Respond
October 15, 2019
Alexander McCoy-Reimer: “To think of how many decades we’ve lost in the fight for the climate because of these groups is staggering. It would appear that democracy is a hollow notion so long as the wealthiest few are allowed to control the environment in which we make decisions that will affect us for thousands of years to come.”