Climate crisis

When it’s warmer
in Antarctica
than the Pacific Northwest,
I realize my dream
of a summer home
somewhere near the sea
may go south,
where the birds fly
for a winter
that no longer exists.

The psoriasis medication
burns the fingerprints
from the ends of my fingers,
leaving them raw and red,
enflamed with tenderness
and a sensitivity
like permanent sunburn,
my touch now
a cluster of damp nerves
reading the Braille
of every painful body.

And isn’t the world
accepting
of every poisonous exhale,
asking us to wet
our toes
in the tidal pools
of floating plastic,
bottles and jugs
clunking hollow
as the years
adding up to nothing.

I know of no technology
powerful enough
to save us
from this permafrost mud,
buckets of bees’ wings
crumbled into dust,
the whole planet stinking
like a rotted locust husk,
and now,
just as empty.