They tell me despair is a sin

They tell me despair is a sin.

I believe them.

The hand moving is the hand thinking,

And despair says the body does not exist.

Jan Zwicky, The Geology of Norway

Polar bear claws receding ice tide,

shakes his too-warm coat,

slips slowly towards oblivion.

Earth flexes its long spine,

its momentary shrug an eternity

in human terms, each contraction

a drawn-out moan of warning -- 

earth's rib-cage coming undone,

millennia splitting into a new configuration:

They tell me despair is a sin.

They tell me earth dreams through me,

ask that I listen

as ice-melt discovers ancient rock,

as its tongue, raucous with drowning words,

re-enters old alluvial spaces,

but hope snaps off at root and stem,

feet sink deeper into muskeg.

They ask me to measure melt.

They tell me this is but the tip of mayhem.

I believe them.

Earth is uncomfortable in tenebrous skin.

Not since birthing moon and stars

has anticipation been so double-edged,

or rested so heavily in her molten heart.

Sensing a turning point of great mistakes,

she tips to final reckoning,

traces black dots of melody

against the sky, traces the seamless signature

of word and song dissembling:

The hand moving is the hand thinking.