We live life as no more than

the half-shrugged shoulder of

of a sleeping giant.

Let the wasp sting,

the filth stay,

the rodents gnaw

upon last year’s dinner,

prepared by another.

 

All has become

nature’s disavowal of its own

existence, the slowly turning

roots of black.

 

Flowers remain half-open,

squinting their heavy eyes

at the persistent sun.

Happy birds – I think they’re happy –

singing desperate songs

of unbidden encouragement,

scratch, scrawl, and howl,

like every happy voice – persistent, annoying,

useless, like a dare to a dead man.

 

Everything is good.

Is anything good?

What is anything but everything in reverse?

Oh, this melancholy, cottage

industry of romantics, poets, and

those with everything better to do

and no desire for it.

 

Life is good,

or so I’m told.