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.
I need rapture, not the heavy-breath version
on repetitive pulpits and Sunday news shows
where mouths of pundits and preachers whip up
contagious affect for infinite reconciliations.
I crave that immediate pause
left behind after release. Once shared,
this can no longer be mine nor exclusive.
Now, simply, evaporating like the breath of a stranger.