We wait in draining offices
for the things we hate to help us,
thinking of rabbits on the library lawn,
thinking of anything anywhere.
We think of a world fit to protect
our many embraces. We think
of no world at all.

We hold hands within connected suits,
wondering who connected the suits.
Thinking of death, we hold monogamy
to be the standard. We think to hold
nothing, then to hold more and more
nothing, in swinging arms
toward familiar parking lots
swaggering in our damp mechanisms.

Hologram chimneys for real houses
with hologram fires. The sweat
on grandpa's face is less real
than the blood on his descendant's
palms, flickering in the fake twilight,
in the ersatz dawn. Only dusk is real;
the place where someone thought immortal
smacked their young head
on a younger parking meter is as real as the sun.