Jesus The Beautiful Girl, XV

A pair sups in silence, in aggressive pursuit of textured
vegetable protein in the angled
window, a biker glides past.

Each studies the plate; she has not
removed her sunglasses.
SOMEWHERE IN THE WORLD RIGHT NOW is a
game I once played before
falling asleep. A dumb exercise in
fusing weak probability with
an ecumenical sense of sleep.      Oh, sure;
        SOMEWHERE IN THE WORLD RIGHT NOW a bee
grinds on a fabric flower. You could even say that happens
somewhere every twenty eight minutes— likely it does!

       Is he sore with her or is
       she sore with him?
       I'll never care about things like
       Bethlehem, I don't think.

      Everyone knows these images come from war.
Those of us un- exposed, or limited to the dosage from
nuclear reactors who discharge the compounds our teeth
interpret
as good calcium —are still privy.

These are dreams not of the times but of Spartan textures,
of long, standard ineptitudes
for natural lights. It's very good
that calcium is there. We butter
our toasts, kiss, wage particles— we mean
to propel them for families we are not
obliged to see as they calcify,
cause they're over there, and we're here,
dreaming motion pictures around their
insect deaths.

Jesus butters, please herself
to think of vines— and of Pontius as her
vinedresser. For him she abides, he
proceeds from likenesses, and Jesus bears
love like armor, her hypnoses are drone
strikes folks like to call UFOs.

Maria Walker / Know You Hello You