ACT I

In the elevator to infinity, she 

     stood postured as a mountain, while he offered 

    carbon, cash and flames.

They sheltered in place, through silence and dings; the status of shelter during late night tv.
While quarantine, a police state, and commerce don’t stop,

Don’t (jump)! 

     as infinity’s elevator speeds up towards the top //

that's the way this ride works, where done poses as fair
// and few things feel right while you live in this land /

where control dresses as aid,

and no one knows why

   [the {politics} of] realization veer[s] violent when each tenet a lie. 

ACT II

But the weight of westward nitrogen goes mute — 

and the atmosphere separates to embers … 

[the probabilities follow]

a singular realm engulfs the top floor, as long as 

     all illusions remain firm and decline 

                  the cheap shots of dopamine and 

        the antagonist’s distraction.

ACT III

All illusions merge momentarily back to one, 

and again, she stood postured as a mountain, while this time

he empathized, offering 
antiseptic lemons and 
ginger’s electricity.