Brigid MacArthur-Thompson, ‘17 Plastic beads swinglike rosaries through the leavesAnd the sidewalks have scarsFrom the rising water.The roots grow big enoughThat as you walk,You could be upended at any second.And the ocean waits, ready to rush inAnd fade us into oblivion.The trees must be as oldAs my soul,Because the closest I’ve come to findingGodIs on…

Walk with me, this guided curveSwaying, while you swiftly swerveTaste the breeze, in the airCry out to the voices, in utter despairFollow now, this burning coalInevitably, it will swallow you wholeSuch a terrifying assumptionThese threats of consumptionJust wait for the eruptionIt will cause such suctionBend what is realSo you may concealBend it in twoTo hide…