Renews, 2121

Well, saved from what? I prayed for this 

at thirteen, this shithole shoved up its own

                             shallow harbour. After all,

a national literature begins with a flood:

Akkad, Acadia—the epic's blood

is disaster. The permafrost warms my heart

when I see it seeping into old stovepipes, 

or see the church, there, choking it down.

Disembodied lips tip-toe on hilltops,

nipping up and down for a quick gulp of air.

We should’ve grown gills when given the chance, 

I s'pose, but I s'pose that's the government's fault.

I allow the air's all salt. 

The permafrost cuts my throat,

my punt a tongue on the hunt for the 

proper way to pronounce

myself, alone, in a borrowed punt on a calm grey plain of

               flobbing water,

with minims of bells lightly tinkling somewhere, punctuated by 

               the occasional gasp

of a drowning distant relative, while I nod into an interminable,

               purgatorial

fog, a prehistoric fog, and all that's left of this place, my home, 

               breaks its nails

on the slippery peaks of memory

But isn't that us all over again,

a crate full of flares and no flare gun.

Jesus Christ.

                              Renews, 2121:

The birds I've sent have yet to return.