Cloud Covenant

This poem kisses a man near the mortise lock,
standing alone, lips parted, evening busies itself. 
The pitchy hum of summer trespasses, bleary-eyed.
This poem deletes all apps that usher worry. This man
kisses himself like a fool full of worry — he parts his 
own lips for this poem to kiss him like a man would
if he could be found on an app. The gate the lock rests 
on, drones beneath weight, exhausted from serving 
on the front lines. Our back channel: rogue, and listeners 
bored by persistent military language. This man near 
the garden hears warning blossom daily: shorelines 
retreat—even the salmon carnations are hardly startled 
anymore by guns, heat. This garden is depoliticized, 
rendered nothing less than flowers that suffer anxiety 
instead of fools. Everything made is vanishing, sky is 
the first to go.
We busy ourselves with war.

by Cody Ross Romero