violent global apocalypse
aren’t you worried brr
the mirror ball
playing with the toddler
in the parking lot
so meaningless: music in the air
there is no belarusian
version of this poem
she turns the therapist to 11
we no longer think in color
there’s only cold
dark and not dark
the prism handles the rest
the first third and fifth course
are the cheapest white wine in secret
as if it were the edge of the universe
the far away thunder of a giant waterfall
but no ambush no sauce
it’s not like they have an option
who made their black-strap shoes
their blonde bobs and toned coats
the door remains the ink remains
the windows blown into sky-gone into bricked-over
in favor of what’s left out of frame