Zealots aplenty, in these days of misplaced belief; sure,
you can’t tell if the guy in the seat next to you’s an
ex-convict, but it’s just as difficult to discern
whether the suit across the aisle might have a moral
vacancy beneath all that expensive Italian wool and seemingly
unblemished perfection. A cultivar’s a plant variety
that’s forced from selective breeding— We’ve all heard
such histories: the dusky nanny under the pecan tree
reaching for her breasts and popping them into mouths so
querulous with hunger they don’t wonder why one tongue is
pink against the nipple’s dark areola, and the other
onyx. That’s a different time, people will say.
Nostalgia makes the past seem better. In the present,
meanwhile, we suffer the public bungling of fools
looking to ascend to public office. Wisdom,
kingliness, humanity, hope: we’ve grown wary,
jaded from exposure to their magnitude of lies.
Isn’t it time for the season to turn?
Have all the birds flown south for winter?
Gather the tender-leaved indoors and shield them
from the coming frost. Scarlet-lined, afternoons look
especially beautiful in autumn. It’s almost as if
death might never come reaping. Destiny’s a work
cobbled from castoffs. So come over here,
buy me a drink, offer your shoulder; buy us
a little more time before it all comes down.
In response to Via Negativa: Autumnal.