Tuesday, September 15, 2015


Fixer Upper

all the colors are askew
I no longer see Earth's sky's blue
in my dreams, but I know
what sails above ain't it

Earth's new-normal droughts
pre-adapted us to this hot home
we can make it here
{with some cometary ice}

polar ruins, and older relics
in the hotter lands
speak of those who lived here once:
did they emigrate or die?

does this latitudinal retreat
record self-inflicted baking?
In any case, survivors take heed:
steer clear of hothouse Earth!

End of poem

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