I sweat while I hack up
dust balls in the oily smelling
morning –5:09
I pound the coffee grounds into
the receptacle and wait
an empty stomach grows like a hybrid monkey
I ignore it
and read another Isacc Babel story
–that horrible war
and lumber to the cinema books
there is a picture of
Satre smoking on the beach
at Cannes 1947
I pull at heavy drapes
and am surprised by a white and
dark world
almost black and white but with
a strange blue hue –snow in february you are so cliché
now I can admit to the
chill and bring the portable heater
to my knees
and open the paper
an article on the next supercontinent,
Amasia they call it, interests me,
that gradual continental shifting,
a snail’s slow dance, that I
tell myself I can feel
hold on
and I read about
Iran’s nuclear program another
excuse for war, there are
so many, another witch hunt or
la conquista –la expulsion de los musulmanes
or la muerte de kunst
and as if struck I forget about Amasia
not hearing the death gulping
cries of the geese
confused as I am
I head for my covers
and forget the drab snow and morning
and I dream of that new
supercontinent and I know
I’m hearing and feeling the magnetizing pull
of continents under
folding water

Listed at Duotrope
Listed with Poets & Writers
CLMP Member
List with Art Deadline
Follow us on MagCloud