240. PHANTASMAGORIA


240.



PHANTASMAGORIA


After weeks of muddled days I wake

to find the sun cracked and broken, 

molten shards littering the ground.

A crooked old man, bald

and toothless, circles the space,

chanting strange words,

shaking his fist at the empty sky.

The world is running out,

he drones with authority.

I squeeze my eyes shut, hard, and

remember blue shadows on snow 

sun pennies sparkling on the lake,

soft sunlight washing the house 

pink in late afternoons and

Mama's plastic pinwheel daisies

glowing white in the sunshine

against darkly green grass.




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