My country ’tis of thee

Empty, empty, of good or bad,
all equal before the sea-spattered
horizon, the pastures relentlessly
split open undone forever

I gaze on these at last remorse
the withering vine, the trodden soil
all witness to vanity, to regression

since times untold and form unbidden
horses fraught, thin bones straining
against what flesh remains.

As an infant, I was told how this
was my legacy, my inheritance,
all from the wrong ledger, it seems

The one beneath, the one unsmothered
despite the efforts of a cruel century,
the murder of compassion for fear of pain
the sacrifice of love for the comfort of predictability

Fools’ gold, dross, dust.

Dreams of flying, of falling

Gorges, mountains
Openly beg for access,
The carefree, unhinged wheel
Sits unbeckoned, waiting,

Can it be these glimpsed echos,
These half-chewed bits of life
Are what there is?

Now that I think of it,
It’s been a kind of dream paralysis,
A fear of waking, flying,

There were times
It seemed possible to swallow it whole.

No, that wasn’t it.

Have I missed much?
How much would I have missed
Had I grasped at opportunity?

With luck,
We’re billiard balls.
Some rational vector.
Some reasonable

What part of me
Is indescribable?

We always thought we knew.
Is our vision better now,
Or just our opinion of it?