Dear John Donne
when the pride of death sees no God
You and I exist lambent in nonchalance,
mists static bills pandemic injustice politics
we ebb the stalemate of each other
dry rotting with that heirloom quilt,
my lips crack more each day.
16-millimeter film clatters on,
the light once used to convey the footage
is busted and the contraption smells of vinegar.
Men sway in stop-motion,
whispering hallelujah,
dripped in robes and entropy
ignorant of chalices spilling
iocane powder over distribution.
Blue tarp under a single cloud mocking union
lost among hubcaps warping trees
when the pride of death sees no God
as they spin in decreasing revolution
of cement brakes stains oil saliva
forced to meander a river for two fools
prone as some fondness for a president rambling
mocking disdain like matrimony.
Come back with me to the Dragon’s Den
where you and I drank cherries absinthe water
breathing a moisture barrier
masked and unmasked
into the static of years before 2020
projected by a wet microphone
that held the balcony door ajar.
I’ve been purging my closet
in a quarantine need
of halters ponchos skirts anything revealing,
as if the poetry books are stacked
for galactic cannibalism
yet here we are. Your devices
will barely glitch as I lurch
this toss pile toward the inevitable.