for who else is to rearrange the sky and save us?
Imbibe the coal gas into a silken cloud, float to
the top of the Tropos, and there discover the
sparks and smoke that we live for, live through,

that have extended our reach across time, space,
are now making our vision blurry, our hands
turn black, our executive function switch into
permanent trolly problem mode – so now we must

vent – and then actually vent, pull the cord,
stop the carbon and the dioxide being released,
rearrange stovepipes and cigars for a gentle
descent we hope and pray, though beach ball

bouncing is a fate far more likely. Blazon this
across the atmosphere we seek to rescue:
heaven will not remain if all we do is sigh, fall.
Conquer everything yes. Ourselves most of all.