The Idiot Plot

I call my friend to ask if he’s read the news.

He’s on a diet, he says. He only consumes

that which nourishes his soul. He fears a rot

no scalpel can touch, the hollow pleasure

of an echo chamber. I tell him anyways all

I feel he needs to know. I send him pictures

of three wanted men who may be one – he

sends me a lamp which arrives in hours.

I am lit by all I consume. It bursts from me.