In holy glow of bruised dayfall we lick bloody bowls clean,
howl laughter; on TV, today’s Housewife Realness
(backyard diamond charity party) squeals and glows.

Look. The dematerializing periphery is not undiscovered,
just too important to not ignore. It rings
our rusty monuments. Glory sloughs from their faces.

Foolish mass, undulating mask, we sneak
sidelong glances at that shimmer, the unmistakable
drone we try to drown, inert monolith of sound.

Outside, the heat bares down like some solid object.
And all I can do? Move toward the moon.
Full yellow, it bounces, in time to my step.