Sunk into our planet’s center, a lead weight spins into nowhere.
Human minds simmer like diesel, ready to explode out of nowhere.

I love breathing heat from open flames. I can’t take being shut
up or forced underground, as if vultures didn’t swarm everywhere.

Also, it was a lie: Anaximander thinking the sun was a wheel of fire.
His math actually showed the sun’s the patron saint of nowhere.

In Rome, wasps shone under cornices like jewels—Cleopatra’s stung,
but never died. Imagine her as the Emperor of anywhere.

Sometimes, at night, I wake, as if hearing smashed fountains
brim over in Al-Andalus. Where are those gardens now, if not nowhere?

Who, as a matter of fact, is allowed to return to the forests, to their
ancient homelands? Even trees are absent in the middle-of-nowhere.

As usual, my protests rise past ozone to the clutter of low orbit.
Meltwater always runs bright, stings, then disappears nowhere.