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There was an internal destiny

the waterlogged nasturtiums missed it.

Like the ferns jutting from a moth's nose

Sal starred from his bed for a long time.

He walked out of his hotel room

and down the hall to the ice machine.

There he met a girl who smelled like kindness.

It was later that evening I was born.

I know I owe a lot of people 

looking for a cold drink

or who hear the rumbling of ice

now that the world is melting

and we are fleeing its shorelines.

I know. I pulled my car over, stopped,

for a moment to look back in hope 
that this extinction 
might give birth to something.