Tuesday, August 2, 2022

By the Stacks

A dead leaf skitters
       on a perfect lawn
Bolted off-limits as the dead
       derricks of old
             Pat Robertson,
Now Gold Coast Fence,
       unmolested by requests,
             separates the tars
From phosphorus uppers.

Every person you meet
        is a nudge away
              from Enlightenment,
Totally getting it, and barely
        in the trance that makes
              the thoughts they think
A moving mirror that takes her
        away from us, by which
              I mean myself only.

They say it's a process
        of more lucid dreams
              by daylight
Across the entire populace
        -- in time, they say,
              and slowly deliver
The glue unhooked 
        from the envelope,
              the parcel pulled out

And its contents titivated 
         by the closest thing we have 
              to collective,
These councils in white
         with sleeves of gold
              and hatred
Who make the decisions 
         you think you 
              thought of

But the wave came and went
         and left you to lean on
              this gravity vice
Where the stone's not even
         hollow, the fumes
              not even seen.
We have woken up
         no more firmly
              than in not taking this
World at its word anymore,
         as we would a dragonfly
               on the lake at firebug light,
The white unmistakable 
         spoken on everyone's lips
              in silence 
As the new sun
         passes the dead towers,
              skirts the tar.