Often upon the wilted rose, I
hang toward earth and swing and sway,
fold my arms in feigned irreverence,
furtively murmuring prayers I know;

so soon it seems our lives unfold
so soon we see in doubtful reverence;
we chomp on this our undernourished day,
pleading for just one quiet afternoon.

Heavy with the weight of foot-pressed grape
we glare blood-eyed and thoughtless yelp
of every unsuppressed, disreputable tale
on which we squint and contemplate

ourselves, our world and our soul-isle;
alone and beached, our stare dead-eyed,
sucking air like a spectacular washed-up whale:
between each breath our secret prayer to die.

Our world is clinched between the structured
and the free; both giddy and forlorn.
I have nibbled the imprecatory psalm –
tossed and thrown, smiling and wave-worn.