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LOST IN THE FUNHOUSE
Well, here we are, Karl and I.
Worried like fat old hens
with the new-born minute
chirping away the time.
Chirping, chirping. Brief testaments---
and purple---out of reordered time’s
last syllable.
Karl laid an egg he can’t fight
I can’t fight.
An insensate passage
of moment to moment
just will not be
reversed. And time’s
continual regicide leads us on.
Like a lady leads a dog
From one quivering crouch
to the next. It is
a form of foul subtraction
that trims root and branch
to necessity. And we chirp on,
get of the same eggs,
trapped forever
by a bloody-minded clock