Self-Inflicted Dodo Dada (redux)

A dusty path toward deliverance after a club on the head, a dark hour, a black age—

Quashed then regained. Diverted, re-charted, and reoriented

The crags and canyons—vertiginous—skirted. The roiling water. Up ahead the fog-smoke.

We live beneath the heat dome once a year—but the duration metastasizes—

At the terminal hour we’ll live beneath the heat dome year-round as feedback loops unspool their violence

In ineluctable gyres—followed by the exhalation of a bated agonal breath.

What I’m Reading:

I lean back, as the evening darkens and comes on.
A chicken-hawk floats over, looking for home.
I have wasted my life.

— James Wright / “Lying in a Hammock at a Friend’s Farm in Pine Island, Minnesota”