1.

Start with interior,
Knowing there’s confirmation
Of measurelessness.
In essence it’s the nothingness
Of solitude.
Night air tinged purple.

Move on to superficial wounds—
Emotional and physical.
By comparison, a spiritual 
scratch—a
Gray glimpse of a
Passerby on a windy day. 
A swear, an inconvenience.

End with the
Countable but infinite,
The faces trod, limbs crushed,
Burned earth.
Crisped brown
That turns you back inside:

Vast.
Solitary. 

2. Take It. 

Take Putin. Take Xi.
Take Trump.
Put them in the sea.
You made them. Take them.