shadows swing from cypresses
their stinky orangutan feet reaching out
into the unordinary blue night
the branches are draped with togas
in both dream and day
dyed with phoenician purple
as your id strangles your ego
with a newborn’s swaddling
stirring tropospheric anger
and among the tired people
a maelstrom of misunderstanding
thunder’s sonic drum
sweeping them into their
thatched huts as they shield
their dusty faces
with dessicated branches
while one can only wonder what
the flies feel,
as nature the master angler
reels them to oblivion
reason is out of season
on this primeval plain
a storm which we feel to be real
without having seen it
wet ink smudges
a flock of blackbirds flying
over the page’s edge
product of authorial imagining
inside a vortex of apoplectic clouds
couriers of disaster
squelching tribal laughter
while in their communal rooms
they pray
for the fortitude of light
lost in the weeks
of inconsolable torpor.
The Cabinet of Heed 