poems as hand- and foot-holds on a glass mountain


We’re standing near a raspberry patch
watching a bee-raid of little capitalists
taking what they want and flying off
with no thought of their leavings.

You needn’t pay to bask
this patch of sunlight is free, unlike a trip to Cabo
some say a thing’s true cost is turning it down;
are you ignoring local sunlight because it’s free?

The raspberry bushes are a still field
to the bees’ a moving one
and their watchers yet another
where individuals are special effects
photon-waves in sunlight’s field
a movie hero outrunning an explosion
a traffic camera view of a busy intersection
a new world burning in every Internet moment.

Whose FX are we;
what sport for long-ignored immortals
whose laughter we cannot outrun?

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