Friday, November 11, 2016
Survivalist, how deep is the wound?
There is a second sun, a second June,
disparate over the terrace
where golfers play seraphs
after the first iced tea afternoon.
This is a letter to my second wind,
where I rename myself Canadian;
eloquent islanders travel the roads within,
and paint the world by re-framing.
Poverty causes angst among martyrs,
among the once wealthy––
selling the rings of their former partners,
what people will do for money.
What people will do out of desperation
tells something of their ruffled character feathers,
and newspapers have absconded restoration––
they have fallen on hard times and rainy weather.