(In response to and with a line from Dave Bonta's "Psalm 2.0") Let creation somehow survive us: should we continue to desire, let it not birth a hydra of insatiable hungers. A shower of golden flowers exhales in the heat, and I marvel at how the soul mints mirages at noon. In shelves and drawers, I come across small gifts: a bow tie with a harlequin pattern, a hair comb binding spokes to a trellis of roses. This is not the delirium resulting from fever. When I open my arm, something twinges in the middle of my chest. It isn't immortality that we want, even if we keep pushing ahead of ourselves.
Purveyors of fine poetry since 2003.
