The apocalyptic reports have come

true, dilute in our arterial solvent
the atrocities saturate our latent notebooks

we stay awake lambent
there are iridium rectangles under our tables
we meet languid, nauseous

Transfused presently

for a few decades, chronic, venous, insufficient
the intervals of talk speed to nothing

and we’ve become scientists of without
under force, out of water, across loading
with bearings, of us

Nothing will come from our innocence

you know that, after all, no
discoveries in old texts, no modern symmetries

no revelations, no wisdoms to be admired