year 2156

i.
we sit on this breaking balcony, watching
the sky turns itself inside out, pounding
out a funeral march (endless, endless)
this downpour that would have noah
cowering in fear, but he is dead —
more than we can say, for now.
if i had an ark, not even the rising oceans
could have driven us from home
you ask me if i miss the sea
i say maybe, sometimes

ii.
we sleep on top of thin covers, listening
to the breathing of six strangers –
homeless, like us
before we blew north with the rain
(this hell, this crowded wasteland)
your eyes are in the past,
staying indoors to survive the heat.
i ask if you miss the flames of your old home
you close your eyes so i can no longer see
the things you have lost
and say not really

iii.
we lean against chain linked fences, waiting
as the sagging people pour from buses,
like smoke from a bonfire (too dry, too easily catching)
they come like us – escape from the sea
escape from the sun
you ask me if they realize
what we were too late to learn
i notice their hopeful eyes and upturned lips
and shake my head
no, i say, not yet