swash papaya

a swash papaya rolls gently onto my toes—
desolate place this—
oil sheens in eddies on sand once white
just what is that color now?

the swash papaya inedible
soft and blackened on its equator—
equality evanesces much like a savage republic
replaces what it once paid lip service

this swash papaya will never touch my lips
as otiose as an indian summer
when everyday is hotter than the next
this island is thee heatdome

swash papaya rots—
oiled and poisoned—
i eat air
no sustenance here

What I’m Reading:

I am aware of the state of our world. How could I not become radicalized against it?

— aeon ginsberg / “about this poem” / poem-a-day