Turns out poetic justice
—for me anyway—
might mean
dying in a flood.
At age twelve
I had the privilege
of swimming in The Great Barrier Reef.
Floating among dayglow coral,
a psychedelic spacewalk
through old growth aquatic forest.
At age forty
I met myself there
and asked him if
two thousand, seven hundred pounds of CO2
was worth it.
I screamed until
my face caught fire;
we only heard
the sound of bubbles
drifting to the surface
as if time
didn’t have a care in the world.
The ocean suffers.
Schools of rainbow fish
swirl in sync toward extinction.
Coral withers wishing
it could evolve fins.
