Classic Poem

Funny how these days lounge and flit
past seeming rancor to the fits
of fulsome plan. I have for long
endured a passion subsumed by all I
see, yet the weaving thins the layer
and the fluted hopes evaporate
in steam. Nobody launches
except to sail, but lips grow
sedulous, fingers fumble. How
little to show before a firing squad
of one's own device takes aim, replies.
Conversation, not communion, communities,
makes this world glow — lit
but not consumed.











Used by permission of the author.