Diseasement

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I

“Is there narrative in our bloodstream?”
Memories of chromosomes
twisted strand is it spread between
the vastness of constellations? They say
that we are the stuff of stars and we

meet anabolic and just curve. This augur
strains under cold and cumbersome;
somewhere someone lectures
on DNA to an empty auditorium.
Our “cruel junk.”

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II

On the balcony
cigarette wisp curls a damp
brittle lachrymose—

We hum canticle for naiveté;
baptize fear with old names.

Between shaking palms a heat.
Is that it? small and still growing?
Drawn toward silicon. Nickel. Iron.
At once place open hand to chest
and listen to your heart.
At once a beating, and then—

Stars eating themselves.
The catabolic rage of supernova remnants
mouse-toed and freezing
toward a sky full
of these bitter burning globes.

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[Feedback #1, #2]