I’ve been contemplating
going off-grid—
writing
a new Scripture
of fire and flood, the next
Revelation.
The pages of all
my books are full of annotations:
When is the time to flee?
Shelter—circled, underlined.
Provisions, dehydration, and—
beautiful things I can also carry with me:
The way the sun filters
green through native cottonwoods.
My son’s face, covered in hose water
and backyard raspberries, tart, consumed unwashed.
How quickly—how quickly
we rush to some unknowable
end, but today,
raspberries over and over
until the letters themselves become
lovely.
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