Some plastic essence,
demolishes day’s facticity.
The rest, as they say, is history,
a cold, cold history of doubt and regret.
The solid fists of the sun repress
an anesthetic rain
over a land stung with drought.
Meanwhile, I’m feeding
on paradoxes boxed in a shouting
match and still growing hungrier,
now lunging toward
a patchwork blockade with a flame
in my palm. All sense of calm is quelled
in the haze, swept away
in a thick river of violence
and dumped on a lonely shore.
I’ve waltzed with my share
of cloudbursts, and at worst,
they were dreadfully slow,
and left me fixing to flow in the heat.
But then what? Crutches,
agony, and blistered feet.
Now, so it seems, my incurable
tunnel vision has left me dumb,
depraved, and I no longer care
if the light at the end is the light
of day or the light of an oncoming train.
This is a fumbled verse preceding
a desperate refrain,
a canvas framed with nothing to show.