By Anne Marie Macari

“river with a valley so shallow it is measured
in inches” says McKibben

and no longer Ever but shrinking,
this marsh-wealth in a buzz

of conversing, wing flaps and wind, ringed
by housing, drained by canals,

an expanse thick with mangroves, orchids,
birds erupting out of grasses—

“so flat that a broad sheet of water flows slowly
across it on the way to the sea”—

algae, floating lilies, water purified
and sent into

the dreamscape— Heaven’s

beneath us, what I look down into,
bubbling mud, permeable skin—

Driving here, miles

across paved-over space

till what’s missing gathers—
jaw open in the sun,

wings explaining—

What can’t be seen is more
than all of this Strokes

of green blades swells of nothing—
we’re Ever

latched to each other, burning

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