Would it be lying
to speak of autumn trees,
specifically, the Plane,
Looming in plains so strange
as resemble Mars
or Enceladus,
When in fact we see
in plain sight
the Plane itself?
Almost-touching orbs
cruel Fate’s separation
Frustration of joy.
Despair of yellow if you wish —
The taint of
choleric bile,
Midas’ daughter,
snow pee,
jaundiced eyes.
While Orpheus’ golden lyre
went to Hell and back,
sunlight echoed on dayend clouds,
towheads ran on Baltic sand,
dandelions colored my hand.
Jacob’s stairs still ascend
— presumably to Heaven —
But who waters the geraniums?
Yes, it’s better than glass —
a hard, cold
divide from reality.
I can feel the breeze,
rain falls and I am wet,
squirrels fear my smell,
jays rail at my presence.
But, there’s still this matter of
nylon, a millimeter thick,
a soft cage of unwanted
domesticity.
Bluster & Absurdity 