The sun is new every day

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A leaky vessel, embedded in all

This spooky action where whirl

Is king not for a day but as 

A category inescapable

I beseech you and 

your alabaster skin

Flinty heart

Passive rectitude

could we just get on with

The redness of no longer loving

and the cool blue 

semblance of puckered anxiety

I do not lust after distance squared 

Slipped loose from that horizon 

Into which a passel of Barbarians 

ride on horses in movie after movie

That plays on after my head 

Runs into flickering gray abstract

of no longer feeling anything.

And somehow I find it hard to think

My children will understand that if

The hordes in the epic epics 

Do not move across the land

The land might just bite back.

As it has done and

Always will do.

Not winning is a given if the finite

Is both measuring stick and 

Soiled carrot

You find a rhyme for orange 

In a dream and suddenly it

Seems like your naked 

Ring finger is split-haired choice

Not spite-pickled destiny

Easier that way.  Better too.

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