Blood

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.