Anthropocene

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I don't track the units our house uses
   admit to      hot steamy musings—
          the indulgent art         of daytime baths
 the damage from nesting
        upon hearths—
           smoken open fires
I am the reckless owner of a second car.      once, I joined a board
    to try to lend honest voice
          to the purist of greenest of minds
who asked;
     what were you doing?
           what have you done?
my world-saving begins
          in the peace from the light in the trees
               as divine wine—
through my veins.    of the adored feeling
         of being poured—
                through your arms
noticing swollen worms escape     the suffocation of sodden ground,
       risking death—
            squashed, squelched, plucked by lucky birds
seeing how the tiny lovebirds—
       bounce off one another’s auras,
                   in rings of surrounding joy
second life is baiting us
   magnetic raptures on a miserable day
      gushes of grief—
         gullies of sadness
             droplets from the tears of branches

    what am I doing?
                       what have I done?
my world-saving emanates from unknowable places
  the sense of invisible hands that hold us—
       (all that we might have missed)

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It has pretty much rained every day this year where I live in Ireland, water tables everywhere, and still they rise.  

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The worms risk all from waterlogged earth, for the freedom to breathe again.

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Above are all the tracks to all the poems I've written, best played on shuffle.