Our feet were wet and cold,
Like dead little fishes-
As the dirt drowning
In blind-eyed rain.
The worms had just begun
To bear the bodies away.
Were we not,in the end,
Simply soil yearning its way skyward
In hope of a heat
Fairer than Hell?
They stacked
Us and our bones
In pale ranks.
We were justly returned.
Our ghosts,we discovered,
Were but bundles of little splinters,
Burned for an hour
Of vain warmth.
The wet-eyed Idols,
The Ones who made
Immaculate miracles for us when children-
Bestowed on us the Sign-
And left us to our Lot.
Cold like the fishes,
Dead like the worms.
YOU ARE READING
Small Silver Fish
PoetryA growing work of poetic exploration,this small volume explores life long struggles of a poet groping for evolution.
