I regret to inform you the rich have begun
harvesting Mars’ oxygen;
inter is in the written news again.
They claim no correlation nor ask for forgiveness.
I am worried you aren’t worried.
You might not be paying attention? Public
policy is stillborn. Impulse
thoughts and prayers are batched releases.
You might want to relax. Find a way
to watch the Milky Way spin its slack spiral.
This slow death of heat and tempers rising
is not holding its sweet promise of sublimation.
What I need is rapture, not the heavy-breath
version on repetitive pulpits whose mouths whip
up contagious affect. I want the rapture felt,
the immediate pause left behind after release.
Now shared, this is no longer be mine nor exclusive.
Simply, and completely, evaporating like the breath of a stranger.