A crow describes a black line on the wind
and the fields mutter hoarsely in despair.
Many days gave their lives to get us here,
where predators grow constantly smarter
and signs show how glaciers shrink each year.
The moon’s death mask hangs in the stone-grey sky,
watching all of reality at once,
its black filthy roots and green viper stem
as well as its gaudy flower and pot;
we stare at each other until she hides.
The world is acting out a fantasy
I cannot interpret: the sun still rises,
but black and square, and then reverses course
in endless un-achievement, promising to
remember the future and forecast the past.
Published in Abridged (artwork by Louise Manifold)
S.C. Flynn 