Weary. Yes, I must admit, sun or rain, weary
wary worry yes I am. Fascists and colitis
came to drag me, each with a whip.
The world, rotating in its oven
turned itself, braised in earth juice. Peppers,
rains of gravy seas and fish rotted on the beach
I cannot see. Removed I dwell on high.
Weary. Where did ocean go to, I mean the clean
beach we ran when we were kids, the sand
stretched in patterns of the wind.