What I won’t think about are the glitches in the system.
The one where, after four hundred years of smooth running,
the ocean disgorged its carbon skywards
like iron filings drawn up by a magnet.
I won’t dwell on it.
I won’t dwell on the model where a sudden storm
deposited a cloud of sediment
causing a plankton bloom
that fused all the world’s water into a stiff, organic paste.
I won’t think of that paste,
its texture or smell
and I won’t think of that other model
where, after the smallest change
in the initial calculations,
all marine life evaporated
leaving the sea bright as a polished lens.
Instead, I’ll look out of my dusty window
at the blue-tit hanging on the back of a fern,
the plum tree teetering on the edge of spring,
and try to find other words for
try not to think of the hard drives
filled with terabytes of failed worlds
that never even made it to now.