It Has Never Not Been Thus

At night across the stovish intersection
a dog barks like a choir of sirens.
A lemon scythe rises,
then overwhelms its fulcrum,
the plants camouflage themselves
in decline. The closer you get
to the center, the more the center wanes
like a satellite that’s broken
the phantom ligature of its orbit.
Hope is a paper hat
resting on the dresser upstairs
as the tsunami starts to agitate itself,
to speak into some slant mirror
how much its mother never cared,
how its father disappeared
or soldered steel bands over the space
in which it came of age.
Belief does not exist like morning,
like high pressure systems, like the shrug
of trees. It’s a spark thrown
by the awkward lurch of your vessel
into the gaping dark into which
you steer your vessel. You have to
let go sometimes, sometimes
you have to hang on tightly
to the nearest tree and feel the debris
write into your skin before moving on,
accelerating in the direction
of reporters. Yes, I have been touched.
It’s a beautiful night
among the surviving leaves,
I am happy to be here.