Lunk:
The real disturbs our ignorance
but keyhole facts leave much of it intact:
and there is thanks for that;
there is thanks for that.
Futility's a mountain in the yard
we go past everyday without a nod;
and when all the photographs are charred
the memories remain. How odd,
it hits from decades back like a dart
in the car, and we say
"I don't know what to do!"
Splashes wet the wheel:
for speed is very real,
distance, time not true.
These tentacles which whip
from out the ocean blue
are all to do with love
and some with death:
a little betrayal, sharp breath,
can stay with us to rue
like a deathbed regret.
Each to their own
sufficient goads and deterrents.
Dangerous to tidy another's
delusions or derangements -
cycles only sometimes
converge in serendipity.
Ah. But drink up, drink up.
Next is on you. Mine is a pint:
half of folly, half of forgiveness.