in which it gets
too hot to think
in which it snows in summer in Northland
and someone's predicted it on Facebook
and grows famous. In my own defence
I retire to the shed and write.
You begin to recycle. He walks to work
on Fridays in the spring
and it does him good.
Later, he drinks until the rising cost
of drinking no longer bothers him.
Making wine takes a lot of water
which pours out of taps onto lawns
and the crime rate rises
to sketch a satisfying graph
which clearly shows. We clearly know
now what's coming
and so we do nothing
because it's too big to imagine.
I go to the shed and try my best
to imagine it without getting so upset
that I can't still write about it
it's not enough
