eremacausis

Those crys­talline orna­ments I knew as a child
Don’t cover up any­thing in this dry, hate­ful heat;
No merry-lolling in these streets—
Some­where, a deep-throated war­bler, insa­tiate, sighs.

This is what I was told would hap­pen —har­bin­ger
Of clogged cloaca and those unfin­ished night­mares
That dis­ap­point and leave one bare
Before new day’s start and end­less point­ing fingers—

Even Plath could see the muf­fle and mute it gives
To blues and reds, but here there is no ren­o­va­tion,
Just the steady dete­ri­o­ra­tion
Of a weary mutt hold­ing on stub­bornly to life.