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.
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.