FROM THE OFFICE OF NEW AGE FIRST FRUITS

The shaman left her invoice
for the terrifying rain dance,
then hitched through twee 70’s flicks
towards a Santa Fe ghetto,
snaking like a monsoon floodplain,
co-opting everything that wasn’t
scurrying into NORAD.

And when the fax spat her futhark
launch codes, we fell silent in its bark
on choppy surf-topographies;
we, the mute St. Brendans, ran
adrift on matchsticks,
awaiting iced volcanoes’
smithy hands for New Worlds.