For an hour the moon blocked by a monolith further darkens this evening apartment. I'd prefer the cool moon's full absence. Not to mention a fuller compliance from the seasons, be it raw freeze in January, or heat made permanent by June, rather than this shibboleth of dust and sunburn we call November.
I typed this poem down a search engine like a corpse rolling a newspaper cone to holler regrets from within his coffin. Bodies will float by our windows. Our bodies will float by windows. The decline of a nation begins in its homes.