We’ve had the wildest trips in my bed.
Plot twist: actual romance long after sunset.
If you’re ever in San Francisco, never reveal
feeling really insane. Within seconds, she is
delighted to be full-stop wrong, floating above
Hollywood while drops of my blood spatter
on the elephant in the darling angel city.
Los Angeles is quietly canceled, a horror that
never aged a day, all the minutes and hours.

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Now that my play is prematurely over (coronavirus), I’m back to my project of writing poems from phrases in magazines. This month, I’m using the March issue of Cosmopolitan. I feel like I’m finally starting to get how to work with its, umm, Cosmo-ness.