Oracles write prophecy on leaves
for a reason—the loophole.
Oh, Karen. We get it.
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Moby Dick
beyond all hum of human weal or
woe
I have swept the floor and perhaps it is a fantasy
Spawned from a heat-oppressed brain, but I think
Of Jung who sat on the rock in his youth and
Could not tell which was which
There was something barren
In the chemical trail, flat
Basalt pathway clear
Of any trace of human
Life
I mention this not to anchor you
in the flow, but to indicate where
in the solid block of time
this poem, this
particular flaw or subtlety may
be found