where things
worked out—
where the bees all
stuck around
and the birds
maintained their weight—
where a pretty fence
built from
coordinating conjunctions
has made cordial
neighbors of Church
and State—
where, instead of
swiping strangers and
sexting AI,
you and I linger
over coffee and pie
(even as I type this)
in a round-the-clock diner—
where anyone
who lied, or wouldn't
look me in the eye
is tortured asymmetrically
for their crimes by
harmless prophecy
first haunting, then
unhinging them, then
driving them to blindness—
what good
would any of these
distant fictions do me?
My dharma
is the clusterfuck;
my armament
is kindness.
