Do you believe in oil plumes?
Or global warming? Peak everything?
A nation’s split, the hull’s two sides
move apart on these rocks.
We thought we were the iceberg.
We have a chicken’s urge to peck at things
that could crush us; a chicken’s urge
to flee into the phantom safety of a leaning board.
Safe now. As if.
I dawdle over supper on a dappled lawn,
as mowers drone, bees murmur.
This sleepy burg’s phantom safety
can’t calm the fluttering inside.