In the photocopied forest,
where origami birds shed origami feathers,
where duplicates with papered eyes
riffle through the files of our dreaming,
where carbon copied life is rampant,
Rosalyn shows me a quick start guide
for human prototypes,
their care and feeding, how to keep them far
from wheels and fire,
and recirculant mechanics.
Our bonsai minds are caged and shaped,
replicas in miniature of something greater:
trains, the sky, and lightning.
For lunch at twelve, we gather on the roof,
the lowest floor of invisibility rising
where soon enough the sea will break
against the parapets.
A stranger wearing scuba gear
is selling tickets to the freeway
to watch time’s flow for thirty minutes.
He insists that he invented it
and shakes his head at seagulls calling
All questions may be answered by illogic.
Down below, the coraled streets are underwater,
no traffic on the roads,
and schools of fish are waiting by the glimmer
of Don’t Walk signs, balanced on their tail fins
till the ambience augers well.
Across the woven skies, sentient lightning sends
a message flashing cloud to cloud:
worship us, we will not negotiate,
though nobody pays attention.
A train flying low to Western Central
is struck by their vengeful voltage.
The engineer maneuvers, a controlled descent
to land on an ancient shopping mall.
I applaud until I realize
no-one’s going to join me.
Rosalyn, who talks too much,
makes idle conversation, too idle to repeat.
The Isvénia Sea is tidal, it reached the
thirteenth floor today,
yet the world is neither ending nor
beginning, saltwater damps its oscillations.
Railsea, China Miéville (2012); many fish see colors that we can’t; global climate change— the oceans will act as carbon dioxide sinks for a while, until they turn to fizzy water.
the old world (woven pastoral, spring)