"Now" by Katy Bohinc

The heart feels singular

in its multivalence

your Chinese characters

pulsed a different headline

humanity is the poem

between the fields

the electrowaves

of each jungle pulsing

for its politics and

it’s the iChing: recognize

three strangers for who

they are.  I couldn’t get

out of TrumpBrand.  You

couldn’t escape the CCP.

Putin stepped on your face. 

The future is a boot marked

“1984” consolidated by infinite

brand impressions.

Not all infinities are created

equal, said the political

debutante to the refugee. Isn’t

Cantor a luxury?