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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