Stockpiling fission fire
on either side of an aspirated fence,
a fizzling stick waving wildly,
raised to beat a ghost.
I am walking down the street with
no one watching. Wind blows.
An umbrella turns over near the gutter,
broken and clanking. A shutter whines closed.
Inside my pockets I search for a book
I read long ago. It held a poem
called The Telling. When I read it, I gripped
my sweater tight around me, and grew old.
The ground disappears acre by acre
until we have no place to shake hands.
Then I dream the sixth extinction is averted.
The memory of mammoths resurfaces as prophecy.
