from Martha:

We are living here like demented gods

the moon is a cloud
the light is a feather

under a massive set of legs but
over a flash of lightning

the narrow memory
is snaking
in and out of my cordlessness

little swells of burning
on the desert
are absorbed through my genitals
then I realize the lightning was just
a thrashing fantasy of
an old friend

I cannot tell Martha my vision
she smells the spirit of death jumping out of the earth
and she will want to harness it