Some things are grief-full,
difficult to swallow, yet
perfectly understandable.
Other things seem mad mistakes
foolish errors, wild misjudgments
crazy bad lines drawn;
and the sentence is so heavy on them.
Is that what these folk need -
need to become our judges?
Punish, curtail, close in a memory;
and cut off nose to spite all faces.
Ah. God may have come a long way
to Immanence and Atheism, yet
everyday her angel stands at a gate
with fiery sword, excluding,
set jawbone jutting firm.
YOU ARE READING
Greenclad.
PoesíaIvy-jacketed, December oaks on road-borders shock their stark gestures at us now, through sun and sleet, that January will yawn at and February, propping eyelids, will desperately ignore, longing for blossom; and making do with the least of anything...
