“Researchers find that over 1,000 metric tons of microplastic fall on 11 protected areas in the US annually, equivalent to over 120 million plastic water bottles.” – Wired
Every poem is a love poem, even one about plastic rain.
Why else bother to save anything—rainforests, whales,
ourselves—if not because the world is sensuous?
Rocks hum, seashells murmur, jungles throb
with life, life, life sprouting from every inch,
impossible, overwhelming: it takes a kind of lust
to tear down trees, to eat the flesh of once-living things.
I destroy as little as I can, yet I consume all the same.
If I tattoo my poetry to your thighs, will I have left
too strong a mark on the world? Haven’t we all?
There is plastic in the rain!
An alien poet could pen an elegy to what we’ve killed off…
Yet were she to set foot on Earth, she might come upon us on the
shore, hand-in-hand, collecting what the waves can’t wash away.