All I own would not fill a trunk, and my gut
holds neither god nor demon
since the boarding-up of my faith's poor shack.
The demagnetization of the compass my father
left behind as he sailed away on his warship
has nixed my direction. All roads are forked;
lead to air, water, and dirt dead ends.
I cannot worship the trees or rocks or hills
since I've witnessed them being wrecked
and thieved by master hoarders and poets
who speak of silent seas. The sea is never silent
except to those who dwell inland from its smash
and hiss. I'm weary of liars and the love piled
on their images by household sages.
If I could find a timer I would set it. Let its
tick torment those who never want to leave
this year or the next to someone else. The ding
would smack of finality and smooth-faced tombstones
stacked for the engraver's eye and hand. The spark
behind his spectacles, kept bright by his muse,
would blind the naive angel who would try to intervene.