CNN offers round-the-clock coverage
of a gaunt polar bear swimming
for an ice shelf; an astronaut cut loose
during a space walk. Ratings soar as we
begin to understand the great love
of floodwaters for what is submerged,
and feel even our vilest waste vindicated.
On the coast, a dockworker mutters
a blessing with his last breath,
then accepts the undertow.
The colossal scrap-iron olive branch
erected over Toronto has grown carious
and collapsed. Grief-stricken citizens
find slag in the Kleenex
as they blow their red noses, turn up
air conditioners for the soothing hum.
The prophet’s DVD has sold out,
and his tour tickets are prohibitively dear.
In Kensington Market you score a bootleg,
watch it in the living room with the lights out.
And in an archway across the street,
a pair of pretty red lips insinuates smoke rings
into the closing dusk. You add yours to the millions
of eyes that, right now,
hold vigil in warm coffee-shop windows,
thinking very hard about snow.