Galactic colony pulverizing in a glass dome, 

greenery sulking like a tired actor.

Scientists are poured over machine and ice,

their hands fervent to salvage our last

thread of Mother. The Company craves

to pull a little shoot from concrete.

Carbon shines like frayed curtain edges,

cycles to reach the largest basin—

hunched over a punctured rock, the oil lining

our oval-lipped mouths. We beg ceases.

We forget how to treasure viridian without

the human hand ripping some away.

Blind coin-loving as the chorus hushes.

Children on sidewalks sponge clouds

of tiny metal. Nerves pulse silent destruction.

We have no cool, erupting concern

as the birds cry. I watch beetles

wrangle for coldness under my feet.

A slow death by a stove top

perpetually increasing. The concept

of infinity is still not real to me.

Humanity plagued with tension. Hunt

on the lips like a fruit caked in mold.

Every day my heart drops, swirls

the way ink drops blossom in water cups.

I hear everything and try to hide

in the meat of a tree, not migrating for

all is warmed.