The city has no interest in my breathing, it contaminates my lungs with anti-air, infuses them with vacuum.
Yet, should I leave this wretchedness, to find a place where burnt-out cars are overgrown with vines, where the breeze blows allergens and dust, and determined insects seek comfort in my flesh, my heart would be tormented.
In my mind I’m in a granite tower, fog and raindrops,
lichen and moss. The sea above its maritime level
is scattered and forgetful, tiny fish have fins
for swimming and for flight.
I chose a basement cavern and pretense,
Martyrdom Lite with a flower,
I curled on the runway where interstellar flights were landing
and bathed in temporal trickles,
lacking seriousness and gravitation,
factualising while my compass spun.
The planet’s hold had waned,
Newton’s fruit was drifting to the West
and ripening, yet I remained
while those around me rose.