The animals are awake.
I wear bells on my wrists
and ankles so as
not to take the lions by
surprise. Can you see me
through the trees?
O Supermoon, yes, I am
troubled.
O Birds of America, the idea
of disappearing from the natural
world completely
didn’t exist until Georges Cuvier
said so. Chrysalis, this
is extinction. Cloud dump,
grey houses, grey roads.
Keys made here.
The animals know something
we don’t. I can’t move
my mouth like that.
Maybe it’s a kind of talking
but I want to believe
it isn’t talking at all.
I want to interrupt
myself over and over.
All offal. There aren’t any
distinguishable markings.
Audubon regularly burned
first drafts to force continuous
improvement.
I don’t mean to scare
you, but I am devoted.
Bioluminescent.
Something’s always decomposing
into something else.
Swamp pink
in the seascapes.
It’s not enough, these bare
nouns. But a shoal of bass,
sleuth of bears, sedge of bitterns,
a deceit of lapwings—
I’m learning. I’ll whisper
catastrophe into your ear.