We have no idea
who the thieves stealing our nightmares are,
no motive, but
worst of all, like suicide bombers, they’re amongst us,
and whatever
security we thought we had in dreams, is gone…
Indifference a
shell of misfortune, hatred a weak shield,
retaliation
circles back to indifference… hatred becoming ominous
nothing.
We discover
happiness in the yet uncarved sculptures of our Being,
worn-out pockets,
really, and otherwise well beyond our grasp…
Chipping away,
chipping away, chipping away, at blue granite
Is it the mare’s
distance to foal? – a little nussing, that’s all –
Or are there
flames, and we’re running violently wild?