in any new dispensation


our moorings are torn

from the beds of sands beneath ageless seas


and we are adrift in a flux

that shattered generation after generation


of empire and custom and limits of consciousness

only the mercy of a god could contain


or the mercy of our blessed smallness...

grains of sand taking flight with each gust


to settle in new arrangements of some pliant landscape

the dust and dirt as old as creation itself


the energy itself there from the start

but the arrangements of matter as unstable as mere thought


in the same as ever dispensation...



Content (c) 2008-2012 Philip Milito. All rights reserved.