According to the sequence of maps
in this old geology book, the outdoor
fireplace I’m casually feeding tonight
is seated on what once was a seabed,
no visible land in any direction.
And I find myself
looking up and around
as if expecting to see
a vast undulating carpet of water
growing deeper and deeper in the darkness.
Oh, I think about where I’ve been
and where I’m going too much,
not enough time for where I am.
And out of nowhere I feel
an urge to dig for shells,
search the sky for an image
of what a tree will look like
millions of years from now,
right here, where all that seems
to understand is fire.
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