A Public Sphere for Poetry, Politics, and Nature
Now that it’s done being undone,
or, at least, the end of the beginning of undone,
depending on the harrumphing water pumps
and which side of the bulldozer blade
is contemplated, or if a phoenix
can rise from the wet ashes
of flood insurance, now that the poor
replacements for the Ark, johnboats
and helicopters, are docked and landed.
The warnings were of “fire and ice”
not breached levees, though ignored
apocalyptic footnotes after-noted,
the Post-Its of black mold crawling up walls,
freely stocking lonely refrigerators,
an unpaid tenant there to guard
against occupancy, not knowing the real Creature
of the Black Lagoon is from the fungal
underworld, thrilled and thriving on humidity.
Fine films of filaments never heartsick,
heartbroken, or longing for home.
Invincible. How little has changed
in the aftermath of changing light: false starts,
unreal rumors, the turning back, returning,
as if life is treading light and dancing on rushing water.
Copyright 2018 Walter Bargen