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.