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Sadly it could never be sorted,
what desire was. Though, it used to be
wonted that one gave himself over each time
to the cramped flight. That was the dream.
To study charts, now, that is something.
The consummate lines showing neatly
a rise, simply, an arc near the answer
to some question I’d posed, and light, very light.
Having reached nirvana, I’d keep myself nestled
in the lit strata of some stars, a sheet of carbon,
dense and billow in my high Fahrenheit,
a shroud. In all directions the light is smoothed.
Kept so utterly stitched, beyond idiocy
only insentience could follow.
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But I do miss the hymns, / the small, hard apples with their dimpled skin. I do miss / things.
The vast hinterlands of the Global South’s cities are generating new solidarities and ideas of what counts as a life worth living.
Protests in China are shining a light not only on the country’s draconian population management but restrictions on workers everywhere.