Listen to Cindy King read “No Exchanges, No Returns.”

So much is known about everything
in the present; presently, so much is known.
It was as a trampoline is to a handspring.
Jasmine, night-­blooming in the moonlight,
shadows, lengthening as if they have nowhere else to go.

It’s impossible to forgive and forget
now that the return date has passed.
To pass your life’s catastrophe on
to your younger, more rational understudy.

The state’s new detention centers
are viewed as a modern-­day arms race:
keeping score but no understanding
of the game (potentially not even playing).
Consequently, some things were lost,
and more than a few became angry.
Crimes, like leaves, dropping
from the withered money tree
on the vast, unsmiling terrace of the penthouse.

God knows it could have been predicted in our time.
Name it Larry or Ulysses;
Name it don’t say baby, say adult of the future.

So, there, there you have it.
We gave it away and don’t want it back.

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