Caretaker has on and off eyes
that midway
don’t work
a pause in
breath/ affect
with face like
sponge contracting
I do my distancing but
As branches
curl about
biowaste
bins at the back
look up to
see bent up cross
in white trails above
the spectral
froth
He says the key sticks now and again
How can the earnestly hungering soul ever distance itself from a disdainful and capricious trickster divinity that relentlessly litters the world with consternating signs and omens of its withdrawal from the vaporous toxic heaven(s) in this painfully epiphenomenal way, leaving us agape and holding the bag of cloudy biowaste?
ReplyDeleteThe caretaker isn't telling.
Danger Flying Golf Balls
ReplyDeletePerhaps the caretaker isn't "telling" but this fine poem certainly is.
ReplyDeleteThank you, gentlemen. Capricious trickster is about right.
ReplyDelete