A green-mauve curtain, striped from the

imaginary fur of the Inquisitor zebra,

a forgotten sea snail swallowed up by Lamarck in 1822,

washes in the wind of night-lit meteors.

One ear can hear

the sizzling of a vat of rock

hurtling down accusation on the reflected stars, on every

enemy and dupe;

on us too,

too transcribed from heavy material.

The hurricane that starts

where islands drip out of the wounded crust

is still warm and sealike when it arrives on a balcony,

fumigating and ruffling a pet ostrich

sleeping within.

The other ear rings with the bus brakes of a memory

coming back quickly from a long walk.

The fact is, I am counting extinctions

the way a cook counts wines. My guests shall drink them all in the end,

and so I call for more, up and up and up!

upon my good name.

At the table, my ostrich asks me several questions pertaining to my education,

and I ask it for flying lessons.

It points out that even meteors do better than either of us,

and I allow that a meteor, even falling, is still a hot mess.