simpler times require furious mastication
shall we fight or dine on our own enthusiasm
sad are the owls who shift their feet in the snow
remove their clothes to feel the cold
in bony holes they hoot and moan
stones are lovers in their own right
the ferns creep on mossy streets
between the sheets of ice and rock
lichens scream and cast their tiny voices
into locks of lakes and hillsides
side-swiped the prisoners swim gladly down the current
smell the jasmine in the air and whisper you are certain
that the mystery is alive and well
while cemeteries are overflowing
smoking pyres of yesterdays heartache
collecting staples on the road
stroll over bricks laid in quick drying cement
the mesentery layers are no longer
under our proprioceptive control