I am sure I might not get over
our future, whispering bluely in
my middle head. Between one
hair and sickening stability, shoe-
footed though that is, the wrong floor's
built right; but I am not would not.
In that disused life, saints rave
with boredom. The spheres
nudge that moment asleep
after a weird crystal decade
shy of the righteous outcomes.
The last past insists, let's take
the now; we whistle a morning
to turn from fossil crossings over
lovers' affairs. Poet, how strong
have you sung an ocean?
Copyright © John Goodby, 2022