The World is Sad

by Jim Gustafson


The world is sad
people are ugly.
Or is that backwards?
I am not sure.
Little difference,
I suppose.
One breeds the other.

High places bring
dangerous thoughts.
Dreams of flight
tempt the wingless
to swim the air.

Flat land
is impossible
to roll down.
Nothing separates
sky’s start from land’s
end. Tumble weeds
long for calm, search
for interruption
to drifting.

Light strikes deep
on well walls,
illuminating
nothing.

Shells coast ashore,
wash and dry with sand.
Feet crush graves
of amphibious ghosts.
Moon tanned skin peels
during later hours.

Tree limbs have unseen
roots, each their own.
Shade crawls the ground
above. They boast
best under full sun.

None of this
is different.
Today begins
all this in mind.

Watch for things
out of place. Order
is first to depart.