At the ending…
Until now I was never one of those kids
obsessed with dinosaurs. Scientists say
we find, with luck, maybe forty percent
of a specimen’s bones and reconstruct
the rest. […]
Every bird on its perch discloses ways
the dinosaurs never left at all, bits
of life even extinction couldn’t kill.
The news offers daily apocalypse,
daily strife. So nightly watch the sky
and remember how much rubble there is
to fall from space, its height never fated
to hold. Missiles swivel to face our homes
and glaciers loose a new flood’s weight. Against
such days, may we all become dinosaurs.
Let us love the stories our bones will tell.
At the beginning… [the ending of the first poem]
in In the Tree Where the Double Sex Sleeps
The oracle touches my face.
Language is where you live in mere fidelity to narrative, she says.
But language is not my first language.
And so the story goes beyond our speaking.
And so for day 2706