Frenzied, under the influence
of one oddly calm chthonic deity,
I follow some secret motet
to its chromatic source.
I see vapor failures
in this cliff that bluffs
safety on a questionable plateau.
The sickly sweet smell of snake
head rot won’t lure
the Round Island burrowing boa
out of extinction. And Sudan’s death
leaves Najin and Fatu
to graze in their shrunken crash, awaiting
in vitro fertilization.
African elephants are next—
I sing of drowning and dying of thirst.