begins
 with a map of this day

dark
    growing into light
        drawn back
     again to
 dark

the arc
      the apocalyptic
all but brush
                up against
       each other

black shine
     mirror 
         of a seed
reveals the grain
      of sun
            rains
               green
      to gold season
       back to rich rot
 black

map of stone
     from wet hot
  lava
     ends too
         soft and broken
                            as dust
            ready to be wet
again

the map
  grows full

        grows
    simple

__

My friend, Tony Majahad, observed that this poem is DNA-shaped—a shape which is both fitting, given the content, and utterly serendipitous. Thanks, Tony.