You, who never tire of chaos, must comprehend this fire,
and the manner in which it deconstructs
the crackling logs, books we’ve read,
ablaze in orange and splintering blue.
Victims of our rage—it appears—they turn to white ash
that drifts in our nostrils, presses our tongues
in gestures of mute farewell. You, who never cared
for poetry or philosophy, part willingly with yours,
while I confess some doubt, hesitating
over tomes you’ve heard me mention with sighs.
We are wholly different, it seems, not in our desire
to purge, but in our methods of departing
from what remains of ordinary lives,
leaving behind what has touched us in time.

December snow, an unattended wedding—
bridge, siphon for what no longer pertained,
sound of lumbering cumulus, sludge
hugging ditches, on a walk to a hidden bistro.
Pockets flush with crumpled cigarettes,
an old cell phone—your kiss lingered in my mind,
enticing me over a long weekend to be redeemed.
Song echoed in my bones—
bad news, albatross, melody burning my throat,
but I assented to the torment. Until you left for school—
sleeping late, mimicking unwavering pines, hushed moon,
your voice the music in my dream,
I awoke to a knock, almost thinking I’d open the door,
before I knew it was you.

Oligarchies discard cartons of rotting produce
in secret dumpsters across twenty-seven states
withholding payment from migrants.
Wraiths eat mold. Camellias bloom in acidic soil—
gnarled, blackened with ash. Governors
convey cases of bourbon to prevent viral contamination,
the appearance of insensitivity.
Activists quashed by the National Guard reorganize
in abandoned airplane hangars,
subsisting on canned tomatoes and roast beef.
The nearly assassinated president revivifies,
endorsed by state radio. Hospitals for Hollywood stars,
skyscrapers, appear on the moon.
Denizens die in quarantine.