Weary
2019

 

Weary. Yes, I must admit, sun or rain, weary

wary worry yes I am. Fascists and colitis

come to drag me, each with a whip.

 

The world rotates in its oven

braised in earth juice: peppers,

rains of gravy, seas, fish rotted on the beach

 

I never see. Removed I dwell on high.

Weary. Where is the ocean, I mean the clean

beach we ran when we were kids, the sand

 

stretched in patterns of the wind.