We live our days' work;
the sky glares down: blatant,
vengeful, orange
with far off fires.
We crawl through our days' work
like unwinged flies,
soapfooted,
honeystuck,
besmeared with lies.
I'm piecing quilt blocks:
calm blues and greens,
right angles meeting
squarely, where they should.
Outside the sky glares at us.
Our little screens blare at us,
promises, compromise,
thick with lies.
There is no peace,
no clear blue in us.
No comments:
Post a Comment