• The Gyre

    Notions are hardly worth their whimsy, rising as oblong pockets from Feathered beds below the glassy sheet of calm.  Nature turned her head Away while coughing, politely sparing us the lurches and trauma here As distant to one place as to another. No state or nation or kingdom Within the sound of our still ocean cradle, resting our feet instead Along the dark-shored island, floating but not drifting, our deepest fear On its way to greet us. But that’s only half of it. The others continue Spreading the dullest sunshine of hope from beach to dotted beach, Solvents disbursing the beads of lives lived before fines imposed Language flowering from…