Rodak
A Good Friday/Easter
This world is a room
perfect
to run screaming
from:
how do we
not?
How do we
abide,
straining to hide
the walls
under pictures
of pictures
of pictures of pictures,
venturing out
only to buy
furniture and frames:
sequentially cadenced,
staring through the sun
always
at dusty angles:
twitching under the moon,
gravid as windfall fruit,
in dreams
of an uncornered being
coiled ‘round
some polar secret
and vertical center:
yet chewing,
chewing and reflexively chewing:
How?