It’s opaque, secretive

to no purpose, circular

rather than linear,

a road that comes back

to itself as if that

were enough to keep our

attention, the first person

subjective, story of you

as told by you who can’t

stop free-associating

words that stand for emotions

you can’t bear to lay bare,

cop-out extraordinaire.

* * *


I put my hand on your wrist

not only to feel your skin

but to feel the blood below,

racing from heart to fingertip

and back, another lap

of the city of you.

Pulse of the city, pulse

of your state, pulse

of the nation contained

in your veins, vines

that grow grapes whose

wine we press tonight:

licorice, mineral, berries.

* * *


Seismic disturbances

disturb us, size us

up for future reactions

to movements of earth.

Inhalations of breath

mean life is still here,

dodgy as it is on Mars

where we all belong, red

dirt space cowboys on fire,

liars who never leave home

for store or space station,

impatient to carry on

with our sci-fi lives,

the hives of bees we keep

for times like these, buzzing

like those who caused them.