Tessa, O My Angel!

I dislike having to read poems
as if on a couch, or being on
machine mode, or having to wave
an access card, in order to have
what–mutual approval?

Nothing’s ordained. Nothing
that isn’t, is. Maybe that’s what
it took but that time–to collide,
to grind, to cushion, to volume up,
to be lounge cats–is over.

We all groove in our grave,
alone except for God, and an angel
in white bent over with ardor, my
lover now and forever, a symbol
soldered in our hearts.

Word list from Wordle 278

Prompt:

O guys, we live in a time of doom and gloom, doesn’t it feel like that to you? It’s Christmas time for Christ’s sake! Blame it all on Trump! His assemblage of a cast as preposterous and unfit as he is has put us all in a perilous, unstable spiral. China’s watching. Russia’s watching. The whole world is and no one has any idea what’s gonna happen next except that he’s going to manhandle it all. To not speak up now is to give up on the protection of humanity or something. You betcha, “A Hard Rain’s A-Gonna Fall”–Patti Smith’s choice of song for Dylan’s inauguration as Nobel Laureate is so apt for our time. So do something–write a poem about how perilous it all feels right now, or about giving over to silent despair. Just do not shut the fuck up.

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