I have moved the post with this title to my new blog, Geoplots, my goal being to protect the tenor of personal and, for quite a while now, poetic content here on Like a Log from the political tirades to which I am wont. Geoplots does have its inner logic, though, and will be residing somewhere along the boundary between the factual and the counterfactual, roughly the same zone where poetry finds its home, and our notions of self take root.
Global Warning
Poetry is sometimes too much with us,
always tangling underfoot. Like kudzu
or parachuting dandelion fluff
we superstitiously disperse with puffs,
poetry can go wild, turn weed, its niche
become the whole global ecology.
O Peoples of the Earth, hear me on this!
Poetry clings to everything. We can’t
hack back its proliferating nodes, trap
its encapsulated seeds, which survive
the seasons, germinate in pavement cracks,
on distant rooftop tar. Poetry thrives
off CO2 & every breath released.
We must live with it, with the change it brings.
***
In Beauty is the Memory of the Flesh