The Earth shifts its rotund stance.
Uneasy with us, it considers
canceling our long-term lease.
The massive hailstones that fell
in the Texas panhandle suggest
the skulls of primitive people
who invested their myths unwisely.
Hundreds of tornadoes that raked
the middle of the country last month
flashed written orders now lost
in the uproar of their passage.
We can’t hide behind broken glass
in Houston’s trembling skyscrapers.
We can’t dodge hail by wearing
desert-colored camo gear.
The stink of our exhaust precedes
as well as trails us. The deaths
of trillions of insects suggest
how disposable our antique manners
have become in this flimsy glare.
The planet is thinking aloud.
We must eavesdrop and consider
ways and means of pleasing it
before it stops pleasing us.
—
William Doreski lives in Peterborough, New Hampshire. He has taught at several colleges and universities. His most recent book of poetry is Cloud Mountain (2024). His essays, poetry, fiction, and reviews have appeared in many journals.
