We decided to lay painter’s tape
all up and across the print, just one
home-improvement step away
from erasing our striped and starred postcard.
All we had to do was buy the primer.
But we kept finding ways to instead
lay across wood shingles and trace the
migration of the power lines.
We were troubled with whether the card
should hold something so reflective of us
or if absence, like the coal mine or the
ocean, might be more sincere and lethal.
We agree that extinction is reversible
and watch the sun pour into itself
showing little sign of stopping.
The raconteur can’t revisit mistakes
in the constellation after it has been told.
I point my canary fingers towards the sky
and they crumble in the methane.
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