I broke up with the world.
We both saw it coming long and slow
as the drifting of continents,

and then came the sorting –
I gathered my values, my faith,
my gin and silence.

It piled its wars and pestilence,
its drum machines and auto tune
hastily into a cardboard box.

I collected The Stone Roses
and I Sing The body Electric;
it held onto false dichotomies

and complicated lattes.
You need me, it said.
But I don’t need much

except this exquisite grief,
some proof that I’m alive
below anachronisms of stars.

We will surely run into each other
at markets and masquerades,
at graveyards and galleries,

mere steps from the ashes,
our eyes briefly meeting,
then abruptly looking away.