We entertain ourselves desperately,

we walk the circumference of a frozen lake and

the sand just under the ice is warped amber,

the color of Kraft paper, of wet cardboard.

 

Somewhere the sky collaborates with thin clouds

and urgently reddens and vents the day,

which we misinterpret as vaguely romantic;

nothing alarms us, we are recalcitrant and morose.

 

We entertain ourselves and parlay nothing

into at least a dim glee, preferable

to being unsatisfied, unportioned

and when we pursue an epic and fail, sullen.

 

Somewhere the sky delivers packages, small ones,

expected, and easily opened with a dull knife

or the fingernail of the god that took our joy

and keeps it as his own true love.

 

 

 

©2017   eolon