The raptured parchment dangles ethereal
hooks that flirt closely with my lower lip.
We have sunk so low to fish for worlds.
Cracking like a temperamental continent,
my tongue balances a concrete answer
as though trying to resuscitate a stillborn
planet with a faulty monitor. “Join our
holy cavalry today!”, a pamphlet where
‘salvation’ is synonymous with ‘apocalypse’.
The fetus departs, a test tube savior with
the dexterity of indecision and a centaur
mantle. We are humans, I reply. Not hooves.