POEM WITH NOTHING IN IT
In this poem everything happens at once
And keeps on happening.
Want a second opinion?
Sorry. It’s the eternal present,
Only here, in your world.
Not much fun, is it?
All present moments are freaked
By moments past,
And by implication, therefore,
The ghosts of moments future.
Comeuppance comes up more than once.
“I’ll be go to hell,” someone said,
When the past passed them by, sight unseen.
Happenstance juddered and wavered.
The sky bore down, cluttered with artistry.
All the greats are dead.
They were always dead.