I thought it was over,
That all the scars had dried up like fish
Penned on trees,
That the wagon had turned over spilling its sin
Into a double scoop of holocaust,
That I was kicked out of the house with the
Dirty cat, like a starving beggar:
But now this comes, new mutations up from
The anointed feet: feel me,
The itch of seams, the molt of butterfly.
How I come dancing over the purplish tor,
Giving motion to the lack of better words. A
Dictionary is flotsam without its society‘s notions,
And now everyone is losing their houses:
They are floating down river calling to helicopters.
How so, I am above them, a needle of light doing
No work, but feeling fine.
Where are they going spinning? Will they soon
Catch fire? Or, who is this, a bit of sugar at my shoulder,
Perhaps tossed there like smoke billowing from the
Glades,
And I am not even there? I am hung out to dry,
And the crowd has traveled south like a carpetbag-ing
River flooding the banks. Winnowing fingers
Lock on to saints and talking rabbits;
But the sky only whistles, too lazy to make rain to net
A rainbow- it is doing fine.
Fine
Did you enjoy the the artible “Fine” from Robert Rorabeck on OZOFE.COM? Do you know anyone who could enjoy it as much as you do? If so, don't hesitate to share this post to them and your other beloved ones.
Leave a Reply