Undergrowth 

 
 
 
There is a world here that knows itself in the way we all do.
That is to say it has a surface personality, a proper social mask
for formal wear.  Underneath, plots are hatching like fish;
bubbles display quick new life — snatched into oblivion
barely formed or growing fiercely strong below the scene.
 
Was it a brutal Summer?
Does the Sun disburse energy
with no heed to the people’s woeful pleas?
Are ocean waters cursed with effluent born disease?
Do ill winds suffocate a nation’s glory?
We could weave this world a better story, play more mindfully
constructed games.  We could take back our focus from blame,
realign.
There is a saying that what one knows is merely that
not willfully denied.
.
.
.

 

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