GLOBAL WARMING: THE FIRST NIGHT

our new heat coil snaked
gutters melting ice damns,
I push a polar bear in Homicide's
rooftop swing where Robin
Williams, cast as a wimp widower,
once sat mourning his defiant wife
who, chin jut out, refused to give
the gunman her gold locket.

The cub is part of our family now.

Thank god her growth is stunted
for good. (At two she had language,
by three she'd lost her human tongue.)
The cub likes to cuddle. We nuzzle.
Still, I must approach from behind,
take her in a half-nelson. I mime
my friend with her autistic triplets.
Of course, we had our bear spayed.

GLOBAL WARMING: 4 BELOW @ 4 AM


I sprout hemlock needles sans twigs
in the convenient crooks
between my arms and torso.
Dainty, irregular, with pubescent underbellies
I love their invisible stomata,
so I shake my branches for an updraft.
The needles seem to enjoy moonlight
but remain quite attached to me.
I begin to shave them off.

This is in Wyoming. It is winter.
Someone has sunk the cattle's water trough,
tapped an underground geyser. Your kids
are in this hot tub. Their first time.
Their friends out testing the ice on the pond.
I have no idea who you are.
Where you are is yonder. No need to say so.
We're all destined for a dip.