Rob Cook
PENGUINS WATCH OVER THE WARMING WORLD A machine skinned by a leopard seal continues in raw silence with its bloody mouthfuls of krill. It falls and gets up, falls and gets up until the air hurts too much to move with even the smallest whimper, or endure the smallest talon of wind. The nestlings wait, unfed, where the echoes of mountains collapse. They do not know how to say that the cold, like a god, is leaving them. Tonight the penguins follow the compass static to the end of the tracks they left, the machines blinking like bodies, the penguins already warming into mud. They huddle and listen for the nematodes leaving in their unseen ships. The endless lines of machines that will not mate stand swaddled in the thinning brown snow.
antilang. no. 6
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