I have seen what kitchens can become,
molten holes in homes, heat
melting plastic cutlery on place

mats that show us where we are
in the world, for that moment,
The magma spewing long enough,

cooling fast enough, to make islands
between even the closest of tabled
seats, Infant shorelines braving the brunt of

tides ill adjusted to their new boundaries,
sheering into rock, if only to leave
a mark, Time, the true story, as Pangaea fades,

Hawaii, so distant, so right in front of our eyes,
our living screens, so hot in the summer, so humid
in spring, steam from the coast dissolving into

the stratosphere, Mushrooms growing taller
than the largest buildings on Manhattan,
the shadows of praying, dormant volcanoes,

Vacations worth the hours spent working, grass
huts, great at blocking wind, singed at unbelievably
safe distances, The roving sheet of the planet’s gushing blood.

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