to put things in perspective, as they say,
the they who always has some shit to bray
about. I march streets like I’m not playing
Female A who cares not how many men
watch her walk, the way, as her mother
claimed, she shakes her ass, cutting her
cunt through his world & his. But really,
count how many fucks I give on this
solstice surrounded by flowering
plants on a planet choked with trash
as I X-out another article about litter
we left on Mars. Extending our reach
it seems, or just how far I’ll go to ignore
what I came here to say. My yuccas puff
like wedding dress sleeves, which seems so
lovely I hardly recognize me in the filthy
window of my parked car, which I wash
now just to drive all day to see my son shrink
behind a table in front of the woman balanced
in front of a much higher bench because she is
gavel, she is judge, she is the human who will
decide his life—that’s only just begun—
might be over before this summer is.
How dare I dream of love blooming now.
