Angst Week: Verdancy

I sing of domes and a muse, in simulation.

I saw the fields filled with the young and eager

Plants. Wheat, tawny corn and the occasional

Weed, that the roots of the crop beleaguer,

Hidden shoots of blue between the rows. Rich

Forever. That land is fixed there, still placid,

Muddy feet in the soil.  I am that which

Belongs no more. Only a visitor avid,

And when I see – from the peaks of Nebo

The omens of owls, and only prophecy

To uphold. Infinitive splits overthrow

Parthenon to Peter’s to Peoria Colony.

Past, unmoored from which we have excess

Of Odes and Oracles. On a hill, Citiless.


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