Not far from near future, we bend
light around corners. Down periscope.
Up and away from you all. 

Take me at my word: they’ve outlawed affection.
We lock in, throbbing like old scars. Your breath
makes me bleed: you’ve cornered the market
on moonglow.

Aurora sheds her darkness
like a golden cobra molting
blue-black crepe. Her supplicants
offer a hairpin turn, vitiated.

So delightfully girlish in your hot pink
puckered dirndl, you couldn’t help but
flabbergast the incoming minstrel.
The orchestral accompaniment 
will be conducted by remote control. 

Goldilocks, tearing apart yet another
innocent family, gathers herself to honor
the return of the prodigal, then flashes
a crooked smile like some shifty little nail-tough
wideout with great hands who earns a living
snagging spirals over the middle, getting hammered,
and losing what’s left of his wisdom teeth.

We saw the all-encompassing radiance wane
as we sidled into the panic room. Still plenty left
to celebrate: a box of stick matches, a handful of crumbs,
this frangible Japanese lantern.


Photo by Christopher Sardegna on Unsplash

Robert Focht

Described by his two rescue dogs as a neo-transcendentalist, Robert Focht lives a solitary life in the ghost town of West Hoboken, New Jersey and divides his time between running headlong into fully-involved building fires and working on an unauthorized autobiography. Robert has had work accepted by Prometheus Dreaming, Curating Alexandria, The Helix, Metafore, The Esthetic Apostle, Poached Hare, Deathbed Capers, and The Hoboken Terminal.