all sparkles & moonshine,
& the bullets spatter on our blouses like jelly,
& fire can only whisper vague threats to our ankles.
what is it like?
all atomic foofaraw;
the glint on the scales of a trout.
sure, they flashed briefly,
then your lashes batted
on the extra life
& there its promise dangles
in form as palpable as this which now i draw—
& poison in the ear, &
a blood-lined trench, &
the fateful plane
named after the pilot’s mother—
& so what: the colonnades
still aching gracefully—
& the faithful prostrating
at aureoled feet, saying—
i need this, i need this,
i need this.
on the next level
rumors soon melt into redundancies,
to high school from junior high,
one job replaces another.
or else the disconnect is dizzying:
i am in a jungle, i am in the arctic,
i am on a luxuriously jagged planet
with unreasonable beings.
what is hope?
above this ladder,
we will be canonized, holy,
& discharge our semiautomatic weapons