Text secretes into landscape.
The tall grass is the hair of mermaids
beached when the legends went dry.
You blame the hills for blocking
the sunrise you cherish and clutch
to your plain but sturdy torso.
I’d brew coffee, but would you drink
anything tainted by my cookery?
The mermaids haven’t sung for years.
They’ve each given birth to a child
with a normal set of limbs.
This is evolution at work.
Don’t try to plumb it with faith.
Don’t expect those children to crowd
into the Unitarian Church
and sing hymns to Odysseus
to praise him for his trickery
and his tough and overstrung bow.
Don’t expect the hills to kneel
in homage to celestial notions
on which we can build no hope.
You bustle about your business
while text clouds over and gapes
with thunder blushing with shame.
Why should it care who hears it?
Time is the only dimension
we split into digestible snacks.
Text weeps over its failures
but continues to secrete phonemes
with which the beached mermaids rhyme.