I check the news
every morning before I shower
they have warned about
Should the world end,
and they announce it in advance,
I would pray
for clean water, throughout:
back to the basics.
If I dream when I sleep,
it is always, invariably, about
the glacial river at Cathedral Mountain.
I allow my apocalyptic fears to
wash over me,
even though I know better.
To sit on the lodge porch again
overlooking the river
so fresh you could bring your glass to it
and rehydrate your body
in its entirety
with a single sip:
get me out of London.
Carbon monoxide fills me up instead
and I grow aware of molecules
in the air I wish to call my own,
although it clearly
belongs to something much larger.
I imagine the rain tastes of poison,
though I cannot be certain:
I acknowledge my tendency
for the production of false atmospherics
emotional in my mind.