After the Bushfires

 

Anthony Lioi

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Yesterday I read the winter feed:

kangaroos storming the suburbs

for fountains, pools, water, anything

 

after flames, the dust cloud satellites

clocked from orbit bleaching

Australia in the Black Summer.

 

Yesterday dreamed the Charles River—

technology's institute drowned,

a campus swamped by a sea

 

shouldering aside the gene-splicing

softwaring skyscrapers like kids

on an ice cream field trip splashing

 

in a sea of grass where fill had been,

a sea of grass from a distance that

to the horizon shimmers rainwater,

 

a drinkable sea as down a green hill

to a bed of red and blue grasses I run

down to kangaroos drinking colors.

 

Yesterday, my feet in grass, I wake.

I say to the Amazon-machine:

Add the rain to my shopping list

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"Adding the rain to your shopping list."

I must text the kangaroos,

dun faces still in flame,

 

I have added the rain [SEND]

you are welcome to drink

the rain from the colors of the sea.

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