I regret bringing a plastic Smartwater bottle

to this gathering of eco-minded artists, and want

to tell each person how many times I’ve refilled

this particular bottle in order to justify my place

amongst them. Who among us is not culpable,

I will say, as they eject me from the U shape

we’ve made sitting cross-legged beneath the trees.

But I am not ejected. A dog licks my right hand

before revealing her belly. We examine a pile of rocks

and discuss geological timescale. Each rock is a verb,

a piece of evidence. Volcanic eruption, coral reef,

mountain belt. It is important to be in the right place

at the right time. I want to rub myself into the dirt,

become something more like a witness and closer

to immortal. I think about my dead friend —

her perfect face, her collapsed future — and confess

to temporal illiteracy. At this point the air turns cold

and it starts to rain. We run for the red awning,

fat droplets bursting on our skin.

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