after Yona Harvey

I would like nothing more than to believe this is possible.
Beanstalk from kernel. Genie snaking from gold fallopian chute

rubbed the right way. Mary Poppins, pulling a missile out of her
designer carpetbag. Russian doll with Russia in it. A poem

from our dysphoria. A poem out of nowhere. Diagnose me
up and down, somebody somewhere says. Pulling my hair

out strand by strand, I pray God cracks the earth open,
Diluvial Day of Judgment. Create in me a mean art.

A poem for our dysphoria. A poem for toppling babble.
For the kitchen window, framing the way out. A little open.