You may, in the comfort of your bed,
swear off loneliness as lack of inspiration.
Then, as if by smell, you sense some
room is burning, must be burning
by no one’s fault but yours. To come
without instructions. Insert here, a platitude:
an apple a day keeps the crippling drive
to call in sick away because. The Master.
Because. The Internet? Because it hurts.
To dream. In so far as to sip this country
and all its sorrows all at once, to gulp
the woman sprinting barefoot through her canon:
reed of mud, swamp and painted glory, image
after image on their phones. You think
we must be going crazy as a people.
To wash off all this blood, whose hues
we cannot name but near pastel, falsetto,
there, our own two hands. The First World waits.
It always does, for in each corner of our beds,
we cannot cry much more than this. To sleep.
To pay one’s rent. If possible, to fold
that naked body like a balm, like gauze,
to hold each other as a limb, to swear off
Wi-Fi, Uber, Love. And more. To wait!
To Vlog. To pay one’s rent again. In this
full-length pond above your bed, you stare
and count the days.