Christa Romanosky
Pyramids don’t share their mew, and no more
bridges can get me to you. Lost
without National Geographic, cubes of azaleas
set up shop, assassins drop by for iced coffee and read
daily horoscopes. We all complain too much
about the mist. What we’ve wanted, we’ve taken
and photographed, glacis blue-eyed hills. Scared acres
just to get public. What I want now I can’t
articulate or name: the ceiling fan attaches
directly to the sky, lava suspends, aracaris fly low—
where can we go that has not already been gone,
mapped, collated into blacklight? I would spend
my life in a greenhouse if I could just get along
with the walls. I stall extinction, wait for safaris
to call you back. Even the lab rats suspect
they are actually wild anatomy.
