the Bolsheviks are dreaming
themselves alive.
Here, the tanagers sing to me
through the window, sanctifying
this passing moment before flying
west-northwest to somewhere.
Somewhere, someone is waking
up for the last time.
Here, I let love distract me
from thoughts of death and empty beds
and some such and somewhere.
Somewhere, a new life in a red state
is someone’s escape room.
Here, I think about blowing up banks
and bringing down towers and
fucking my bombshell accomplice
before we hightail it to somewhere.
Somewhere, someone is exploding
after 30 years of pretending
to be something else.
Here, I’m always halfway out of
my skin, trapped in a selfie, stuck on
myself when I’d rather be somewhere.
Somewhere, history starts over as
someone shares a first kiss behind a bar,
and someone starves to death alone,
and someone sings to themselves,
scratching their neck, driving to work,
going 80 on a 50.