Michael Shorb is one of my favorite poets. His poetry collection, WHALE WALKER'S MORNING, is incredible.
PLANET SUNBURN
It becomes a joke before
we even understand it,
relegated to a kingdom
of cliché:
the whole global warming thing--
it’s that moment speeding
down a mountain road
when you realize
the brakes are gone,
when you swim over and past
the shark net barrier
into darkening water--
the other morning in southern
Australia koalas staggered
onto public highways
in 120 degree heat,
begging passing humans for water--
the air crackled with heat
even after a flood of crows
rode the sun to the rim of distance--
as though nature was just joking around,
all those species about to go
extinct or insane only theoretical,
nothing to dry the moisture from your fields,
drain the animals from forests
and fish from the sea--
and you, every once
in a while, could just
write a check
or watch a special on PBS,
making everything all right.
By Michael Shorb
from WHALE WALKER'S MORNING
PLANET SUNBURN
It becomes a joke before
we even understand it,
relegated to a kingdom
of cliché:
the whole global warming thing--
it’s that moment speeding
down a mountain road
when you realize
the brakes are gone,
when you swim over and past
the shark net barrier
into darkening water--
the other morning in southern
Australia koalas staggered
onto public highways
in 120 degree heat,
begging passing humans for water--
the air crackled with heat
even after a flood of crows
rode the sun to the rim of distance--
as though nature was just joking around,
all those species about to go
extinct or insane only theoretical,
nothing to dry the moisture from your fields,
drain the animals from forests
and fish from the sea--
and you, every once
in a while, could just
write a check
or watch a special on PBS,
making everything all right.
By Michael Shorb
from WHALE WALKER'S MORNING
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