A high five to all the leaves from a sun
that climbs the higher as his days draw out
little akin to shot arrow or gun,
and no dark matter wheels the earth about.
Dark matters being reserved for politics
and dreams, both collusion, conspiracies:
how penthouses shall always rule 'the sticks',
and how reality sidesteps our seams.
Yet gravity's the watchword of this day
the Mephistopheles who pulls me down;
some kind of MOND hidden at spinning play
my best (looped) guess for capers of the clown.
When common questions leave, logic's asleep;
delirium conducts us as we weep.
YOU ARE READING
Greenclad.
PoetryIvy-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...
