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Combustion ballet in the Arctic ether we
take our pins and poke the balloon,
screaming at the gunshot like two-year-olds.
 
Would do something but the
chore wheel carries six billion names.
Perhaps we will grow webbed feet,
gills, the rapture, life’s too short and
busy and hard, have to, get into,
children, right schools.
 
Your children have razor sharp
nails that claw at the sky and
they get them from you.
 
Shards of balloon fall from the
sky like pancakes. We will
do something about the time that
the Pacific breaks down our doors,
drags us into the streets and
puts us under.
 
Ask with our last breath who
knew, who knew

— Michael J. Vaughn