A blue fish with white scales
His eye, the sun. Its scales
rippling, eye staring,
mouth gulping in all
the oxygen of the world.
Its deep breaths pulled the ocean up,
relentless as extinction:
clouds of whales
zephyrs of hydroids
rains of plankton
twisters of eels,
stirring in weather patterns
from ground to the edge of the troposphere.
Carbon dioxide fell into rivers, filled the Grand canyon,
swimming pools, the Pacific ocean– replacing
what was taken as the sky was shaped to the thing’s liking.
We live as a race of scuba divers now, mining air where we can find it,
hunting the wetter skies, scavenging animals that fall into lakes and bodies
of invisible tides, keeping sharks and roaches as pets. We send the former out
on hunting missions. The latter digs tunnels, little lungs relentlessly
scouting the freshest air for our filters to harvest. Oxygen is the new platinum;
Vermin, the new gods.