cross-Tasman smoke
at first it seemed low-lying cloud
like the grey embedded in Great Lakes life
a natural ceiling for a January day
but when I saw the sun
my heart slumped
that sick pink-salmon shade
that without fail means fire
it doesn’t matter how many oceans we cross
the earth everywhere is burning
still we recklessly slake our thirst for jet fuel
while the ash rains down on our hair
we should undoubtedly stay home
satisfied with others’ memories
but it feels like asking too much
to refrain from ever knowing
some of what is left
