At sunrise air is wet and thick like smoke.
Muting the sounds and colors, grayness pokes
and strokes my rigid places. I am free
from hardening my heart. Although I see
the brute squad bungle love–they just don’t know.
Insensitive, they surf love’s current flow,
building empires, letting the details go
to hardworking unpaid servants laid low.
The fissure growing deeper, the rich buy
as properties skyrocket. By and by
they’re all alone, lamenting labor’s dearth.
Nobody wants to work a dollar’s worth.
Their conversation vacuous, matching
the sense they’re superior, so snatching
the last remnants of this crumbling culture.
As I write the fog lifts, and a vulture
lands upon the chimney. The sky slow clears
though ghostly wraiths still dance. Lake’s reappeared.
And everything is nebulous and new.
Substantial now invisible’s in view.