Parked the murdered-out skeleton
of his automatic car in the front
yard on cinderblocks, the disembodied
computer voice in countdown mode,
the number of times we throttled our love.
In the gated complex, a delivery drone
dropped a package on the doorstep,
bottled water from the last glacier,
models scattering beside a pool,
empty except for your scattered things,
heated with spent and bent titanium rods,
tsunami-irradiated and sizzling backdrop
for selfies, mojito in the foreground,
recreational vehicle rocking behind,
all the voices reminding me of you.
Electronic cigarettes twirled in Gatsby’s
fingers, uninvited guests unimpressed
with tiny phalluses, breathless and deathless,
no way to connect the clouds with the sky,
two people on other sides of the parapet.
The partygoers set the host ablaze,
on the final ticks with ash billowing
from the bowl of the desert city,
with a dizziness resembling snow,
a readiness to become the rain.