I glide on my little boat,
Breaking the glass,
Mirror beneath me.
I leave a path made of broken
Shards that cut
And they tear,
Impossible to mend.
But before me,
I don’t see anything
With a single imperfection.
My hand hangs over the front of the boat,
Gliding along the silky
Copy of what’s all around me.
The air is clear and cool as it hits my face,
Behind me filled with smoke,
Hot from my engine.
The trees, heavy with sap,
Saturate my nose,
But all you can smell is burning gas,
Behind my boat.
I don’t turn around,
At least, not until I’ve come full circle,
And all I can see before me,
Is a catastrophe.