we heard:

if there were, here, three worlds

on one globe

I’d know about it. the poem you hold

with your eyes, you would hold

with hands arms legs, splinters of one

 

person.

in the conditional, there are no rapids frothing with certainty.

 

only the family of the first world feel that finality

of coming first.

we must shelter under them when the storms come.

 

after the storm, the sun

blazing on a white bicycle through the tropics

and onto the ice;

when it comes we will see everything

 

three worlds can have no colour

in the great, hot dawn