Summer is for not-sleeping, for making
evil ways work, for knowing your band
is way better. That long-form vim by whose
blood & glow the galaxies once got lit –
we can’t do that anymore. We choose
the swampland where money goes to die.
Amputated avenues designed for withholding
intelligence make us say, “Okay”, and the rich
deciduous pantry of heaven is just a place
we go to spend the day. We’re happy with what
can’t be again: thickets a-twitch with animals
and the ghosts of animals, rivers full.
We missed the eclipse, which happened.
The bouncer’s t-shirt says, LOOK AT YOURSELF.