Tuesday, May 4, 2021

Poem: Unsettled




the dust had no color,

just the lost dreams of stones.

in every corner of the room,

where fate thronged thick,

the proof of it lounged,

looking back in utter absence,




a stupid kind of trouble,

one unaware of its desuetude;

a negative optimal, inert,

and yet somehow still it crept.


in fact, everyone was here,

an ogle of eyebrows,

an audience of furrowed fuzz

from lurid to lewd,

so many ancestral verdicts--


a microscopic jackstraw puzzle

of interlocked taboos.


one breath could make them all dance.

violent tarantellas.  furious sashays.

afterwards they would settle down,



the opposite of dinosaurs.


 but the dust, actually, was older than that.

it carried a primal fetus in its eddies. 

it bragged about how it had stolen

the flagella off the very first protozoan.


when lava cooled,

when the young flames sunk,

when fecund helices

swam in pregnable waters,

the dust was there. 

it started to nibble right away,

venturesome and avaricious,

multiplying its heads.


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