stillfugue

I am watching the clouds go by,
sitting, myself, not the clouds,
in a giant spaceship, and the clouds
are so relaxed, belligerently cheerful
and nonchalant. They don’t speak

but listen carefully, dragging memories
of careless days when I threw
rocks across the wasteful tar roads.

I work at reading some good stuff,
but nothing strikes me with reward, so I

concentrate and the fine but random
patterns in the caramel-dipped wood,
which is singing to me about the cause
of my loneliness, humming about my
broken spirit, asking me why I slouch

in bubbling detestation of my inability
to be good in the world, and I look up
to see that we’ve left the clouds behind
and there is only a sad lull of the blue
that wraps itself in the flagrantly
violent sheen of an evil sun.

.