Earthlings.

when the sediment sheets of this
perpetual mass-grave finally erode,
what was once so fearsome
re-emerges in fragments.
scraps once shattered,
once scattered, now
happened upon and cobbled
back into something that
almost makes sense.
maybe wrong the first
couple times, maybe
disassembled and
reassembled again entirely.
for the best, I think,
that we can’t really
comprehend what it would be
for the world we take
as a given to break apart
into something utterly unrecognisable.
something that those who emerge
from the next great dying will
in turn take as a given.
to wander ceaselessly in a legacy
built on shrink-wrapped approximation.
is there any hope for people like us?
sorry. not the time.
i can never think about just one thing.
hey there, little titan,
estranged sibling in this directionless place.
don’t look up at the sky.
savour the taste of conifer.
the earth will hold you patiently until
the air above is ready for you again.

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Kermit Winona (he/him) is a poet, visual artist, and zine-maker living in Pōneke. His work has appeared in bad apple, Symposia, and Siren, and his best friend is a rabbit named Park Bench.