We’re watching cable news but now the day

is at our backs—two sodas in the fridge,

a lazy wind against the sliding glass.

I want to see you through the century’s

screen door, our doomsday with the candles lit,

devices off, I want to march with you

straight through a revolutionary dream—

and not asleep, you dream of sodas cold

inside the fridge, and still awake, I thumb

my passive magazine, then thumb the screen

to death to shake the candle’s waning glare.

We’re watching cable news before we sleep.

What wouldn’t burn to calm the tarry sky

and who would dare to make the sky a heaven?