My old friend and I went to a restaurant for lunch,
a ramshackle little place, but my friend told me
the food was great—and it was!
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