It begins for the same reasons:
spark, air and ready material, grassless
under conifer. You
study a wax diorama of the soon-to-be
Antarctic jungle, ornithischian
dinosaurs—eating a plastic fern—named
after Qantas; you’re exhuming
the bones of an Airbus A330 beside
the Pteranodons, angelic actinofibrils
stretched overhead like cherubs/principalities
a model beak, a reconstructed lack
of fangs. The sky is humid with not-dinosaurs,
unseasonable amounts of methane
in the troposphere, parting gift of the last mass
extinction. Something lumpen provides matches
like a teen rebel. The Diplodocus sniff
the trail of smoke, audience thinks oh shit fire is still
real, even here … The creche tastes the air
    —The erotic tension between a name and
fossilising—You may watch skin/hair almost turning
scaled in heat. Kenneth Branagh narrates Thanks
to their size, the closeness of prehistoric forests
they can only amble, as the red approaches.