Saturday, January 10, 2015

A Confection of Wills


The illusiveness if not able
To swerve into certainty
Nevertheless enabled some
To banish God and delight
In the green freedom
Of a cockatoo on a rug
Pulled from under

A flat earth and stationary
Universe.  Is it because the
Brightest words were
Spoken long ago and
The God of them silenced
As those prophets died?
One can still if one wills

Hear the disturbance of echoes.
Ben in the back yard darkness
Howled in near-human anguish
And implored me to lead him
Back in despite the existence
Of a doggy-door he might have
Used if he’d had the will to.

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