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,
There is a saying that what one knows is merely that
not willfully denied.