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

the soul

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.