body uncertain.

 

It begins for the same causes:
spark, air and ready material, grassless
in the conifers of no-country. You
are watching a wax diorama of an Antarctic
jungle, post-Gondwana, ornithischian
dinosaur— eating a plastic fern— named
after Qantas; you expect to exhume
the bones of Airbus A330s beside
the Pteranodons, their pinkish actinofibrils 

stretched over head like a cherub, 

a model beak, their reconstructed lacking

of teeth. The air is humid with flying not-dinosaurs,

undefined amounts of methane— possibly—
in the troposphere, one parting gift of the Great

Dying. Something lumpen provides matches
like a teen rebel. Diplodocus sniff
the trail of smog, audience thinks oh shit fire still
exists now. The creche starts hooting and hollering

     - The erotic tension between names

and nameless burning. You can almost watch skin
turn scale in the heat. Kenneth Branagh narrates Thanks
to their size and the closeness of prehistoric forests
they can only amble, as the red approaches. 

​