Fourth-Dimensional Gods Can’t be Blamed for Climate Decay
The trees in Alaska are growing drunkenly—
permafrost melts. Politicians profit. The wind beneath
your thighs is thick, with particulars—I stand in heat,
slicing tendon and breast; I wish to be a spiral. A pyramid
mangled, inverted—four-dimensional gods reach third
base in golden twine spun from dumpsters in New Jersey
overflowing with poison ivy and narcissus; nymphaea, and
bronzed lilium—bury me alive. A floral bed, ring around
the rosy—pools of love crosshatched behind chain-linked
habitats. A rainbow is a gun, a cop is an abuser. Rosacea skies
are fire trodden viking funerals of a time mourned future-present.
The ring around your finger
is a conflict mineral—I want it in my mouth.