Sonnet Wherein I Predict the Future
the trees are talking to one another
again. they’re laughing that Pinker once
convinced humans grammar was innate,
as if to only us. the daisies sleep
in the sun. the island doesn’t know
it’s the last island. the tide grows impatient.
the trees remember seasons, though the seas can’t,
young & old at once & restless with waves.
the sun screams on & on, the hot breeze its
currency. below the water’s surface,
cities still are drowning, like they’ll never
get to drowned, like if they just keep drowning
in the present progressive, they’ll live forever.
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