Not So Much
By Paul Cameron Brown
I evaded capture today
with only a handful of dust
to escape that Old Sandman Death.
Certainly, those maroon berries,
so large & luscious,
crowded on their fat stems
had something to do with it
as did the ground fog
leaving its burrow as so many boll-weevils
their crowded nests.
And there might be something to the fact
the moonlight sat
fat & confidant in the night sky
as surely
as my head rests on this pillow
and the poem invites itself
into my lair of thoughts,
much as nestlings charge the
entrance to the runway
of a tree.
I walked flat out
in an instance
as standing urine
held its own stench
and the grim splash within the pond
dead center in the wilderness
underscores the tone of this warning.
One thought encapsulates wonder
though suggestive evil hides
leaden leaves buried in lake mud
down the corner eaves of someone's
fire hydrant mind.
When you pray for someone
an Angel sits on their shoulder,
when that same someone hates you
does that Angel die of grief?
Serendipity is a flower
and those clouds
re-arranging the breeze
harbingers of forbidden things
not so much like these boulders
use hand-held scissors to open twilight
and watch this fading light ebb forth
tip-I-toe like a bird
squeezed thru an opening
in its cage.