Sibyl Is Alive and Unwell by All This

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.

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out /  Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s