On Nature's Last Foot

Earth contorts with revolting beneath the mega-drill in the North.
With scarce food, humans republish the ecological magazine,
and the South ripples over into the Gulf trench.

Institutes update the Northern refugees on the bio-tech network.

The South resists as long as land sleds rip through the twisted hills quaking in the red thick sky.

A Belle taught me.

Sliding on the dry dirt of a dipping plain on a thin plank
and flying off the stroke of a mons Venus
and out into the air.
The terrain twisted like a Renaissance slouched tower
above the groove of the pavilion.

She spread her fingers like starfish,
those submerged constellations once buoyed by marine geysers.

The atmosphere permeated our pores like the ancestral water
when beaches lined the light house floor, not black blizzards
propelling Aeolus sky sails
up along the Cooke Passage.

The South is the last Alamo
where the earth holds its bearings
and weeds can be seen by divers.

The class rings released parachutes.

A darling taught me
what an arid acre means
even without renewability for species
or computerization into human image and thirst.