Poet of a Future America

In a future America I wouldn’t be able to call myself a Poet
—as every poem will be written in at least two languages.


If, on my morning
commute, all the street-
lamps go out, and the city

under dark, long
shadows, were to
succumb to the pressures
of life without
electricity— where,

then, would our eyes
turn? would the dandelions
still know up from

down, or would gravity turn us
inside out and swallow us whole?