Our ways sometimes lead us astray. And we burrow deep,
deep far away. We are close to where we need to be, and yet
a chasm separates dawn from day, Paradise from its plumbing and wiring.
And even with our little umbrellas we are lost for words but
words leap anyway meaningless as if dissolved chalk,
ours soon to smear on this playful walk
outside the stretched and loaded truck.
We pass pines of islands in sea of asphalt in our found suburbia silence,
except for the rain. And we question our earned piece.
Dove on a dashboard in the cab of a big Mayflower
Monday, March 11, 2019
Topic(s) of this poem: universe