Reading the Arcana

Poetry

Photo by author

Tower moment exhaust
fills the air with carbon.
That sensitive plant
from 200 years ago was
called companionless.
This winter truth lands
on a blanket of
syringed painkillers
given to the cat
on hands and knees.
I do not want my
bed beside the fridge,
in a basement of better ideas.
That atrocious furnishing
was not built
for broken third parties,
despite the business communication empathy
and fireworks of an alphabetized
email response with headings.
The aorta hallway is not
organized that way,
for better or work.
The red birds and crazy trees
that grow in saltwater
are a phrased sign
of life diminished over there.
Here it is arctic in the veins.
I would return
and possibly
hate myself.
Only for a minute.