well, this is really a poem

Vanishing World.


Steamed up window, with my finger I paint
a landscape, mountain forest and a lake; the peak
cries into the lake which becomes a vast ocean,
where trees, having been made into wooden rafts,
floats. Midmorning, there is only an outline left
of the crest, this will happen to Himalaya, too,
it will be a grassland on a plateau, where horses
gallop, flying mane and all, since man won’t be
there to domesticate, and make them drag bunk-
beds and kitchen stoves around the pampas.

The rest of the world will have sunk into a big
sea that is so perfectly still that it spends all its
time mirroring the blue sky thinking it’s seeing
itself and is so deeply in love with the image,
that doesn’t notice the man in a rowing boat,
he’s one time forgot, he has married a big fish
which he thinks is a mermaid, every so often he
puts his hand in the sea and strokes the fish’s
belly: “without you,” he murmurs “I would truly
be alone.”