Tuesday, December 27, 2005

John Sullivan


Disappoint explanations
for why it floats,
even fewer reasons
for refuse underfoot

to return home, head
for defeat. Find a chorus, hum
to yourself, stars

Oh it's nothing

loud enough to bother
everyone in earshot.
Nothing. It's what

is overhead. The doormat
of the undiscovered,

a simulation. The days
were good, and bright enough.
You will not call
or look me up, but,

still, the air moves,
some leaves blew by.
No discovery here
but still,

I expect more
from your gimmick
than the flicker
clouds in motion,

furniture unglued
the way it did
with strings attached.
Snap, break, swear,
keep building,

seized by nails
a determination;
it's too late
to mop up
you have the remote

There is only
one final beer,
four walls,
the neighbor's war
on television.


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