Spin

Happy Solstice. Morning fog: the willows
drag their fingers through the murky shallows.
Water's high with melt and angst. This summer
everyone's on edge. The TV's stammer
can't console, relating royal kisses
to the hungers of the jobless masses.
Shots ring out at night and voices quarrel
while the dizzy streetlights Tilt-a-Whirl.

Spinning helpless, I can't read the patterns:
global vision is denied me. Lecterns
crowned with talking heads, like executed
murderers, confine my views. Refuted
points point inward only. I aspire
to seek the edges of the widened gyre.

Collection available! Knocking from Inside