Ask for the history.
Earth always alphabetises its events.
But that doesn’t mean it remembers it right.
Jumbles up the phases of the moon,
skipping stones giving white back so fast,
it wonders if it is fire raising the phoenix.
Or if it is an abandoning act.
Sometimes it recalls plates braiding over each other
but keeps calling it fingers. I like that.
I let it remember wrong.
Us as we were.
Not as we are. Us fossilised
in bedrock, bodies as curled prawns,
in love again for a little bit.
astagesetforcatastophe, a big recollection