Lunk:
The real disturbs our ignorance
but keyhole facts leave much of it intact:
and there is thanks for that;
there is thanks for that.
Futility's a mountain in the yard
we go past everyday without a nod;
and when all the photographs are charred
the memories remain. How odd,
it hits from decades back like a dart
in the car, and we say
"I don't know what to do!"
Splashes wet the wheel:
for speed is very real,
distance, time not true.
These tentacles which whip
from out the ocean blue
are all to do with love
and some with death:
a little betrayal, sharp breath,
can stay with us to rue
like a deathbed regret.
Each to their own
sufficient goads and deterrents.
Dangerous to tidy another's
delusions or derangements -
cycles only sometimes
converge in serendipity.
Ah. But drink up, drink up.
Next is on you. Mine is a pint:
half of folly, half of forgiveness.
YOU ARE READING
Winter Trails
PoetryWinter Trails is an album of my poems, journeying through late fall when the wire of the trees begins to dominate, till the end of January. After promoting it and it soaring to three quarter million reads, Wattpad unceremoniously dumped it. Here it...
