Blue Tick

© Beth Roberts

Having opened to your face closed up in sun glasses once, I raze the news daily for more of you. These days it's pornography mainly, moth vs. the light, the question being who lied and who lies still. I've learned from headlines giving head and the heads of state we'd better be either bug or divine to survive with a semblance of being seen. I must have failed you, hence the glasses and fabric ated name of a girl running along the edge. I would think such a thing, lying as it occurs, I make my day a cursed Sunday, no church, no meal, I get you from the news, the same sky mud-slinging among us, gibbous, dog stars, all laughing at us at once and the same place. Hence you're on the east or west coast, and nowhere between, face blue from the twitching screen, thinking mostly--I see it like a sunspot--of a world emptied out of a box by sex, debriefed population all alone with their parts and wondering. And now the moon, with whom we share a responsibility. And now the silence, the ticks in the walls and tick- tock toward the light. So you see how I long for you, prurient in the ribs of the hired hound, slight sycophant fattening on absence.