Life is a busy affair
a three-ring kaleidoscope
of chance circumstance and consciousness
a particle accelerator of possibilities.
We forget to breathe
agape to one degree or another
we can either distract ourselves
or settle in by the hearth
hope dark angels pass over us.
That one rose-patterned china cup
a tiny chip on its rim – it keeps us sane
we clutch and sip and pass the time
chatting familiarly amongst ourselves.
The good sun
turns lace curtains into dark webbing
a clue we are trapped here.
We prey upon one another only because
it has been sanctioned by kinship
it’s a risk too to step outside.
Enclosed spaces compress each hour
rooms we inhabit may be vast machines
that feel cozy only on the inside.
In truth they encompass complex clockworks
spinning gears and swinging pendula.
Without walls the experiment seems doomed to fail
even as the mechanism continues to grind
a mill producing a surplus of excess
bulk without nourishment.
Those of us who feed from this trough
are forced to find true sustenance
and so we go out into the fields with plow shears.
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