In your landscapes we drown 

or are stuck between layers of earth.

Here is a film of crude oil on the ocean,

& the beach is cake icing or snow

near to melting. We are content 

to be taken in by your rectangular sun,

the misshapen god of our fathers.

The butterfly’s body is also a urinal cake

with antennae & legs braided into a rope.

Black line what separates our species 

from the encroaching sky, & why again

is there a spot of red on its brow?

There are a thousand places I’d rather be

and I have left them all to be here.