No passionfruit stays intact for its own sake.
Perfect. Puckered. Thrown away. Or ends
up in the humanlike hands
of a raccoon the city has yet
to catch. I will forgo how we got here.
I won’t tell you how a social distance can stretch
since I should probably be dead. If honest about chances I did
not have & those I’ve taken. Truth be said, I ate the passion
but the fruit got away. Because forces are known
through their interactions. Because in making
connections, I knew, going in, both of us
were going to lose, anyway.
These times make causal
an essence. How today “IRL”
is profane— if a city’s to chase
a bandit with a net of frayed mesh
& rusty grip— while we were sheltering {ⁱⁿ} -

over a screen—   I mean

I can’t not abbreviate the hyper- of this forced
reality. I’m trying. I’d like to get back
to sitting on benches, sharing breath

-cheeked. Wind-skirted. Knee-to-knee.
Chancing. I still mean the troubled grace of taking
for granted. When alone & not thinking each moment

could be an uploaded view. Subscribers. Avatar. Revenue.
Not that you & I are part of this,

but just as guilty. & a guess
via algorithms.   It’s cost us

warmth & concern to connect.
It’s gone on longer than this      
pandemic. It’s how we stay

intact & near- strangers,
how ⁿᵃⁿᵒinfoᵐᵃᵗⁱᶜˢ has. {ˢᵗᵃʳᵗ﹗}Up
& ᵗᵉˡᵉchanged. ᴹᶦⁿᵈˡᵉˢˢintegration

&. ᵐᶦᶜʳᵒDissemination. In the dark even my littlest
deaths can’t help. Turn.
Institutes &. Fabrications

of less-wild raccoons freeing
a million kilowatt & impassioned
froots from locked & chained

garbage chutes.   I vow both the raccoon
& I have masks, & either could be the more
reliant, this is true,      I believe

they terrify me
& wake you, my neighbor,
to walk with me.

We don’t remember when it started.
How keeping six feet safe
increases yearning.  

It’s just it won’t do

a “damnthing”  when we come upon
their grizzly bottoms sticking
up, stalking for day-old

crust & magnetars & sweet gamma beginnings.
When they rise up, catch us        watching,
I know I’m so far

from everything,

no matter the pull of a given
interaction. I keep my phone lost
at home, yet. Solitude

turns to sequencing. You’ve got a new
complaint. Blocking these little. Beasts.
Entrenched in a different. Forecasting.

Efficiency. Expertise. Patent. Demands giving
chase to. The city spares. By accident these days. So runs
rampant. True. False. Not applicable, isn’t it, doesn’t it seem ALL

{ᵈᵒᵒᵐ  doom  ᵈᵒᵒᵐ}—
a new

{kind of}

:: ! 4D ! ::

ᴴʸᴾᴱᴿ⁻ᴵᴹᴾᴱᴺᴰᴵᴺᴳ⁻ᴴᴱᴿᴱgloom—

*

One of us wakes up. One more
drenched. This bench in a humid
garden stings. My head steams in
your warm lap. Curl-stuck. Shirt split
opening. Nose slightly exposed. Shaking.
Muffled. You want to ask. We both know
it’s too soon. Three
passionfruit. One too many
is two for you & me, & the last
for the raccoon
who’s known
to expose his face
in the middle of the day.
Not in one’s nature. Not anymore. I’m trying
not to hearsay. But the situation. When you soothe

                             you follow me on social
                             & caught so many         perfect flat-lays
                             of bisected mangosteen & guava cleaved

                             exposing seed on the cleanest    cutting
                             in wood & mist   while on your way
                             to temporary hawkers
                             beneath our train

                             & what are seasons anymore & patience & half
                             -running       a single hope      I’d still be here
                             at the end of some rope—      ᴵᴿᴸ—            

I'm trying to tell you. I’m not sorry
there's no formula, no equation
to forgo the lips,
but not the hand,
so we can climb
right back. What it will be, I can't
promise. Or ease. & that's not
holding at this new length
unblemished,
smooth,
obtuse.

That's me telling you
the truth.