These, remedial gestures: how
a spinning bulk of garbage in
the sea becomes a Holy Vortex
for a plastic bag’s vagrancy,
how landfill picking transforms
for garden-artists: pluck, prune,
and glean like you’re foraging
treasure on behalf of trash,
how after nuclear disaster,
mushrooms grow on reactor walls,
harnessing radiation like purple
alliums photosynthesize light,
happy globes bursting, these
flowers can nurture budding
stars in climates on the drier side,
drought-tolerant, they’ll keep alive.
I read once, that there’s a kind
of love that doesn’t extend itself
both ways between two people
equally because it doesn’t have to.
When air explodes hot and buoyant,
it bubbles and expands, waltzes with
open legs and a rising skirt, condensing
debris, sucking energy from decay.
What’s left at the end of the world,
besides lichen, missile clouds blocking
the sun, and a harvest for two that
can only be tilled by one?