Pangea

Pangea

It is not millions of years, merely twelve months, since
we drifted apart, the drift tricking the eye, the movements
infinitesimal and fluid, a little hour hand shaping the

countless invisible sides of a circle. The soundless
widening of the rift belied its seismic violence; the
series of increasingly detrimental rents, unseen

lacerations, hundreds of deep, dark, undsersea vents,
razor nicks bleeding magma into the cold. Now, eras
later, entire histories swarm over us. Weathered islands,

we are peopled by the crammed incidence of this year,
only heat-haze on our horizons, each other's existence a
myth, the past a travelogue, an unreliable memoir; but hold

our maps the right way up, run the eyes or hands around
these teeming coastlines and it is possible to see where once
we fitted together, the absences where once we were whole.