No straight lines in any season, we wake
within a broken bowl of dark ridges
come together beneath the same blue sky
as the leaf-hoppers streaked last night:
elliptical orbits of gold going for the light—
such passion before they flutter and die
like poor humans looking for an opening,
a short-cut to the easy life. Somehow,
we have bastardized the word, the thought
of work without joy, swapped satisfaction
for a salary, let our hearts go empty
and hands get soft and we hate it—hate
having to pay for a moment’s diversion.
drycrikjournal 