You know, the windmills, boom, boom, boom [mimicking windmill sound] bing [mimes shooting large gun], that’s the end of that one. If the birds don’t kill it first. The birds could kill it first. They kill so many birds.
The albatross drops
like a tress from the blade.
The turbines stop
Trump’s on his knees at the Alba trough.
It’s tough down the wind farm.
The stationary cross
lost an arm in an accident with itself.
The air’s taking industrial action.
Try firing chlorinated wrong bird at
the lapsing of the lapwing
from the ecosystem.
The thighs are the wings of the lap
from the cloaca
though the left ankle’s broken.
Species space isn’t gap,
breezy dove tessellation
over national borders.
Nor is the state bird
our bill of health.
The lame duck orders
thighs or breast to the green.
Mr President, we need an albatross.
McMurdo Station, the ol’ US glampsite,
has thawed to a strip town:
a skid for diggers of desert soil to spin
in and out of.
The population’s cultured
from cult, to church,
to people. Here is the steeple.
Two lovers in light attire
bundle down the breccia
as if the continent wasn’t spent.
Easy to forget having ordered the ice
off the rocks.
Relax. The glaciers were
constipation’s sparkling diarrhoea beaker.
Then the diarrhoea.
The lovers hoe a
vineyard, watched by the Swiss Guard.
A scion goes in the rootstock
in iron-red soil.
Their graft won’t take. Shh
the laugh is thinking
it would’ve taken graft.
the voice of the Father.
Never crossing fossil fuel scions
with easy humanity.
The view from the Papal satellite?
The first Antarctic Cardinal’s zucchetto
from the white cap.
Chris Kerr is from London and lives in Edinburgh. His first pamphlet, Citidyll, was published by Broken Sleep Books. His poems have appeared in Ambit, Adjacent Pineapple, Blackbox Manifold, Haverthorn, Oxford Poetry, The Literateur and the Sidekick Books Headbook Battalion. Chris tweets @c_c_kerr.