Thursday, October 22, 2015

STROLLERS

Walking Lucy muddy mornings
in the park and noticing 
often

the familiar slight chaos—of
this

or that 
little fat 
pink child writhing away, 

lavish but 
livid in the plush redundant safety of its blueish 
gray droplet-shaped confines—
I think:

How?—can my soul
possibly
be

any lighter—
let alone weightier?
than these which walk with it;
when indeed, each seems to have sprung,

so slapdash
and indiscriminately
forth—from one and the very 
same mighty godhead's splitting headache?

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