The cruel are dead the kind are dead mingle the same place of no place a kind of place a cruel place a space where unripe fruit freezes in the cold over where the argive grows, the view from above but nobody is really seeing it, nobody wants to miss out by taking it all in, horizons in mist and people doing all that nasty shit in the foreground: jesus died to put an end to that, that’s why he’s not around to see it, he lifted off into the air, refused to decompose like the rest of us, athwart a tallish mount where awful wings adore.
Meanwhile, the moon always shifts a little; they used to want us to stay still, but it’s a crescent earth, a crescent, earth, a shift creaking or crunching as the world turns I feel something shift — like the buildings don’t line up, like people talking over themselves saying two things at once, like a game of telephone that gets back around the circle to you and the message is: “this is not a test. Remember what you learned: go to ground, shelter in place,” but doesn’t specify the place. Or the peaceable kingdom growling about civil war, desertification, or the ways the glass eyes always follow my own, how people are more likely to startle at baloney sandwiches. We’re always at a point in that curve, whether a circle or an arc is yet to be seen, earthquakes causing a fracturing at the scene, less gravity, more fuel. Fully above ground, we think we can avoid walking on those who are not. The asteroid heaving in our direction has made itself the talk of the town — as in what will they think of next, as in find a chronometer with a bigger dial to stretch time beyond the physical space allotted to it. Yes, things have always been this bad, somewhere or other, and no, there’s no more licorice now or anywhere else.
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June 2021
Kristin Prevallet Author/Editor
I'm a writer & teacher in Lawrence, Kansas who actually believes the scientists. I wrote a book of poems called Of Some Sky that seems to have something to do with all this. |