Sebring
The air, so
dry and still
is not ours.
Hard to imagine
such noise,
already gone.
Distance, speed,
repetition, and still
no way to get
what you want.
There’s a circle
around the square.
They call it a ring,
a feeling uneven.
So it’s no wonder
I’ll trade time
for money, escape
into comity.
This memory
imprisons
the present.
An algorithm
copies the key
and swallows it
with water.
Relieving beauty
from truth,
a thin stream
for each of us.
Self-Love
I was made to love me;
live for aggravation.
The hack. The paw. Some song.
Of ore and soft toxic flecks.
Not hard as in not now.
So when? Slow motion:
again and again,
beyond invertebrate.
The real is tethered to the sad.
The making, the pathetic.
We can’t recuse the dead,
their unfilmable mess.
But there’s more time than that.
Don’t worry. You’ve got this.