Energy cannot be destroyed has become a cliché.
Welcome to the new millennium—we never
talk anymore. The bark of the sycamore
seems like an aesthetic statement.
Have you ever
stood alone in a rain
that could not wash
burning, hotter than star-heart.
Calculate the taste
of the void. Suspecting nothing, algae
pale clouds in the bracken-fern pond, a girl
named Summer playing tricks on the mind.