Is it really warranted, for you to bring a gun to New York,
city of high achievement? Thoughtless we both stood,
me, trying to talk you down from taking an overdose
of cerulean powder, you, intent on ingesting a headlamp
so you could witness the inner beatings of your gut.
Her dough-tipped fingers sparrow another pale moon into fullness as
a giant beast clouds the thicket of bamboo upon its back
with steam. Enough heat can turn a lake
into air, the sea into some memory
of having once held breath underwater.
The horoscope writer kills herself on a Tuesday. It is, by coincidence, the day the weekly paper comes out. Townspeople read her column and find it mundane but also uncanny. Here, some of them feel, are words from beyond the veil.