Grazed

Antarctica (let’s be honest) will not become a tropical
continent. We will not see ice replaced by coconuts

lolling in the foaming waves, nor observe an influx
of bromeliads and hummingbirds, highly specialized

to sip from skinny flowers. There will be no coral
in the polar shallows. No bleaching. Maybe a lonely toucan

fleeing fires north of Iguazú, coasting on December
summer, southern winds; but he will quickly perish—

a papaya-eater in a rolling prairie-scape. If anything,
imagine Ireland—but perhaps not quite as green.

More pink, with gold, and taller, waving: strawberry
-kiwi grasses in a frostbit air, slowly climbing

to the saw-toothed innards of the Earth, undressed
of glaciers, casting shadows on new, unholy shepherds

guiding new-come flocks where colonies of Emperors
once ruled. Like penguins, sheep will walk in lines and

huddle, sheared and shielding one another from the cold.
A house, perhaps, will dot the thawing tundra here and there

—coal-fired—and a few young lambs will begin to scale the cliffs
beyond the rocky foothills, wholly inexperienced, white, and going.