We chordates,
furry, scaly,
endoskeletal all,
are we extinct?
Marooned by a cheap
imported switch,
time-machine buggering
plastic crap
that I fear
cannot be duplicated here.
This world, hotter,
a place of insects,
strange societies,
gossamer buildings
patinaed in shimmer
sand refraction,
grand vistas from
the top of this tower
swaying in the Santa Ana:
after sundown
a myriad dim glows
flying, mating,
spelling out incantations
in an alphabet of arthropods.
My chemical greeting
delivered,
but what now to say?