SPRINGTIME IN SANDWICH, ILLINOIS

The harm less
hose
spews thread that’s stale
and lacks the spider’s webbing.

I can not do this any more.

The preacher
preens.
His flaccid tongue is hiding
in his textured tone.

We all must fail the fi nal hour.

The clos ed
blind
blocks the light that should
be consequential.

I am grown old too fast once more.

And where
is
the question that
begins the ending?

Tied up in the cloth of my desire?

Turned purple by the stain of your love?

And what is God but this?
Hello.
Goodbye.
Hello.