Locus of all these boxes
striated with what energy
would look like.
Bathroom is still sepulchral,
front gate a porticulous of white hot rage
and disappointment.
Being on the edge of something
moving backwards slowly
which was a container ship
of inborn possibility
wrought with gilt rivets
and platinum D-ring tie-downs.
The bedroom is like being inside of a mouth;
Felucian and probiotic. What,
seriously
has happened in the past two days?
The well pen that always overran,
left
the fingers slick and black,
Rorschached about the page;
is drying up.
The alcoholic teenage daughter
is a fictional character and
lives in a new house;
lightning divines its way to the roof.
Electricity elicits the dead
to wake up.
*
You are not the center of a devastating microburst
though it is eclipse dark out.
The primacy of the internet
bottlenecked through the long weekend
and into the next week.
Seems like the world is ending
or, really, did end recently
and all expectations
for what life may have been
adjusted notification
to come less frequently
if at all:
it had ended.
Even the most altruistic desires
juxtaposed against blackness?
against an undifferentiated field?
*
Infection rate of the new spouse jouisance
is around 100%
until the limit of friends friends
who received you warmly
with waiting, cavernous spaces
and hard wood floors.
