‘it’s beautiful’, he said
from the bottom of the wishing well
his eyes, intent, squirming
to find light and traces of form
for a way out, a clue. A shape revealed.
A helix. An escape. An easy win
like the numbers on a lottery ticket
yet always they seem so distant
so not palpable. Fathoms below and miles above
they are treasures of the rainbow. Ephemera.
And so he went on saying things
clutching at all forms of optimism
knowing that in truth he was going blind
as the bets were lost
All belief, beggared and lost in shallows
the words just backward utterances. Infarcts.
The light going skinny, malnourished to a fade
so grey and white that winter would muscle in
even into this empty spring
from which, when he looked up
he saw death with petals in his eyes
and the earth, a crust at their rims
So many scattered things