One hundred years ago
there were one-seventh the amount of people
in the world than there are today
so when Lorine’s voice in a flooded marsh wrote:
head, write something!
there was less noise,
so the water circling her house
sounded louder?
I get up early
and light a candle.
My neighbor’s figs aren’t ripe yet––
I conceal myself,
I seal myself
I con my days into
little sealed lists.
repeated smears of mint scaffold an ache
I watch: shadow of a philodendron
I open a window: check the air quality index
one hundred years later,
there is seven hundred percent more
an inexact equation to measure
what?
Smears of mint roof the burn,
and conceal a turn of phrase,
that doesn’t mend the water,
the corralled creek
the fill of tidal floodplain,
continue to pale,
even if in company.