Our blueprinted fears, disconnected appliances,
sparking careless and unpredicted,
a narrow infrared beam for the moon rising.
It’s evening half-light, glistening on a collection
of
machinery and whispers, the quiet moments,
the fish humming in coin fountains, gold,
red
as fire hydrants against the indigo October.
Careless bookshelf bright with cries, at the window
the world is watching this funeral motorcade
crossing the soft, blank country, no solace.
Static crackling in the cat’s ear, thorny wool.
Evening grass rustles the silent delirium.
Galaxies wheeling through a suburban bedroom.
This is the alchemy of guilt, falling into clean halves.
One heard horrors that she had misremembered,
the other did not wake so close to the edge of disaster.
My secret kingdom, she thought, and it lay buried.
And like a lazy connotation, grey morning came,
awestruck, and bells follow you and me
in an unbending line. It's a carnival ride,
our documentary world, an absurd illusion.
