we sit upon Olympus
watching weather
like fans in a stadium
except we fly above
and in the midst
participate in our own
executions gladiatorial
thumbs down I say
cakes and bread
have bloated us
we stagger out into the
alley vomit the excess
and return for the next event
betting with our futures
corner bookmaker’s odds
I shiver at night
in the alley
winds grow cold
what are the odds
on Demetrius’ match
with the octopus?
I never knew I would become so
intimate with the symbolic crab
in so real a sense
yet it is so fitting
crab walks sideways
armed discus
skyward symbol
horoscope made flesh
and dwelt among us
perfection
continues in
my flesh
in the tides of
my circular organ
my bladder
there resides the seed
that can spring forth
incarnated
deadly
disaster
unmaking all
behind the lips
symphony plays
surges into the brain
takes over
the conscience
dark sweet intoxicating
brown
chewing is believing
swallowing is forgetting
flood me
with gold sanguin jewels
rich, enveloping romance
perfect poem
goes down the steps naked
into the front yard
onto the sidewalk
neighbours wonder
each with an opinion
distressed by public
nudity especially
if an arm is out of place
or a leg is missing
it’s my poem
and I love it
but am willing
to offer surgery
be patient
not a patient
[Our grandson, two-year-old Eero, observing a whirling ceiling fan with a light globe, above him in the Picton Harbour Inn Restaurent: "Flying light"—that's my found poem for this weekend.]
We had seen it
so many places
so many times
ceiling fan
blades whirling
light globe jiggling
unenchanted
we had not
allowed ourselves
to see the
mystical
flying light
be swept away
through the
magic portal
to the stars
[See Platinum River for the background of this poem, and a photo.]