of unseen motion:
the sweat-filled top-hats
poured over children’s eyes
in hopes of trees to sprout;
we take a fall & pick ourselves up
in a carnival game of shoot the ducks:
a miss here, a hit there—
the tally grows higher,
moving ever faster
consuming ever after
the tempo of olden lore
churning at a hellish pace,
the teachers must race instead of teach
students, prodded sheep, toward
a finish line engraved in stone
strung out for all to flee
stories of life’s deafening lessons
a million hear & a million don’t,
the numbers grow & time all but slows
for countless tries & bitter cries
against death’s beautiful gaze,
eyes a-glaze of cloudy white,
never again to drink the splendor of night
through the tarp of forever & never
a spine of consciousness cracked & severed,
fed to the dogs of lessening love;
for his friends, his kin—
his heart aches of sin,
like a coyote howling under the harvest moon,
a sanctified orb hung in the sky,
the ashes of explorers & lovers
upon its battered surface
exposed soft for the child’s glee
to find the reasons why, never answered
before the next question’s cry
from the ruins of thought,
built with the measure
our ancients wrought.