We have tons of hammers but not enough shoes.
Really, isn’t it the same for you? We’d be just fine
if all that’s required is beating out the gold leaf
of our down time until it covers this comedy of fright.
We might even etch the names of our tormenters
into the tasteless vermeil of the tea set we bought
to commemorate this new repose. As if we needed
another hint that while the clock is pushed three hours
back, the actuary tables always come out a decade
ahead of where we were promised they should be.
(We must get this out there while we still can!)
If you know a good cobbler who can fashion gravity
into a style not married to the ground, let us know.
We are barefoot on a beach strewn with bird shit
and the fine barbed glint of what used to be reason.
