"The colours of their middle-age
are a midsummer tease, matching
hues, bluing into blue into bluish-
white in the distance. So here we are
too, a gallery of gazes
looking on these affairs—easy
chairs on the veranda."
"now trace a breath-map in the air. how invisible?
is a rose a turning cylinder of senses? how unspeakable
is this the ghost of the heart, the actual
the inmost deceleration of its thought? how unspeakable
is everything still speeding around us?"
How many scams must we endure?
These broken pipe-dreams of the rich,
of the breathless entrepreneur,
among their piles of cash they hitch
the risks to us through means obscure.
"She hovers at the window, alert to how the house breathes, exhalations as the front door opens, shudders. She hears movement. Footfalls, creaks, the downstairs kitchen cupboards. House-breaths rattle her apartment door the slightest, ripple. If the house was a body, the hallway and the staircase might be lungs."
What do you want?
Standing in the dark, peering in.
What do you want?
And when confronted, nonchalant,
though pearls of sweat form on your skin,
and shameful conscience stirs within.
What do you want?
"firefighters have been tirelessly protecting
I want to hug them and say thank you
can’t extinguish the fear and anxiety
we live in a different world now."