You had an oil spill, and it spilled out into the gulf. It oiled the water. It oiled the oysters and the gulls and the pelicans. It oiled the seashore and the fish.
You had an oil spill, and it oiled into plastic, it plasticked into foam, it rolled into tires and it fired you down the road.
You had an oil spill, and it wrapped around your water, it wrapped around the mushrooms in the supermarket, it flew above you and around you and magicked you to Reno. It tread where you trod, spoke what you said, said what you heard. It snuck about your feet. It whitened your coffee. It wired your house. It radioed and videoed and texted, and its message was especially for you.
The oil oiled your pay, stretched your plastic jeans, zippered your backpack, packed up your six pack.
The oil spill oiled into and under and over your life. It oiled your hair and fingernails and underarms, and buttoned your shirt. And you slid and slipped and snaked, so it all slid by so well.
The oil spill spilled out into the air, oiled away the glaciers, oiled away the Arctic ice, oiled into desert and drought, hurricane and flooding seas.
(The oil spill, a mysterious murder, a forgotten death, a secret fire that won’t go out.)
(No one is sure if anyone’s to blame.)
Oil in our eyes and mouth. Oil in our minds, and in our hopes and wishes.
Oil, how it rainbows on the water.
You had an oil spill. And you couldn’t couldn’t stop.