But let’s not talk
until we can find some
wood to knock on.
We sit and spin webs
of unbuilt futures
and we find smoldering
soot sprinkled, not stretched
over starlights springing hope inwards.
And it makes me want to live
in one of those art deco or
socialist realist tapestries
of skyscrapers on a sleeping
Roku screen
or a late-night comedy set.
I want to live there.
The nameless sky.
The heft of rivers
in my swollen chest.
I want to live
there.
The map I have is filled
with little color lightbulbs
each
representing the heartbeat
of a city.
There—the unreal parallels
of anonymous urban comfort,
brightly lit yet barely seen
and curated with voided space
to write, to translate, to actually
cook food and not worry
about the ugly bargain
of eggs for plutocracy.
I don’t want to fight any more.
I don’t want to hustle; I want
a considered pace.
I don’t want to fall in love
anymore.
I don’t want to love any more.
I don’t want to want any more.
Under winter stars I can see
sprinkles of rain dissipate
as they slake.
