All The Wind Turbines

When all the wind turbines turn
away from sun,

we’ll put our faith in a tiny spectrum of waves
from California’s largest field array.

So much of what matters
is conditional.

Hey, Hydro line. I get you.
This rubber wrench might ground you.

Picture a picture of yourself at ten, maybe.
Is the light on the paper still moving?

When all the plastic islands in every Pacific
finally measure reef bleach,

we’ll put these pictures in leather albums
to defend the analog comeback of vinyl, again.

Maybe that’s too much.
There are still sunsets, after all.

Seeing Venus sit there, early evening,
means we’re ready for robins.

Every pet we’ve got we’ll lose;
and our phones will never smell like paper.

Even if all the bears move in to bungalows
the riverbed rocks will still be smooth.

Hey, Mercury. I see you.
Let’s agree to disagree.