A Drift of Contrition

Why do my eyes deceive me? he asked.
What are the tides going to bring?
Where does the stretch of the canyon
meet animals, and birds on the wing?
Do such stipulations reek of deception?
Have the contents of reality sworn to be lost to time?
I imagine a drift of contrition,
before landlocked insanity felled
and we went blind.
Blind to the falling stone.
Blind to the worry wart.
Blind to the faithful and god-fearing.
Blind to the worship at midnight.
Blind to the daily prayers, repeated
without consciousness.
To the regretful actions and the outright sinfulness.
I doubt you bring cards to the table of god.
I bring cigarettes and a stoner’s guilt.
You bring coffee breath and flagrant lies.
You bring idiocy.
And what else?
Time will only tell us.
Time will, surely.

And surely, what with time as a whole,
in step with a continuum and a drunken spine,
do the ides of April go tumbling into May.
And the flowers burst like eggshells
and the leaves grow overnight.
And the grass gets greener,
and it’s mown sometimes.
However we are, with or without labor,
it is the temperance of being together
that goes slipped into dancing at dawn.
I wake and am perfectly calm.

So for goodness go forsaken
with a riddle at your side,
a sandwiched rock and hard place
you’ve gotten stuck between.
See neither one
while laying on the wall.

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