by Brooke N. Plummer
i.
In exiting a thoroughly
uninspiring state, I have a
Scotch egg at the Greyhound terminal
& watch psychosis fits
& Irish tourists line the sidewalks.
My postscript is an altarpiece,
received by elsewhere friends
who I meet in the dunes of forthcoming.
ii.
The origin of return compromises
with a resistance to closure.
I got no use for those who lack
experience with corruption.
Time passes faster than it used to.
The truth chokes us up, & it’s every man for themselves while digging out
of its catastrophes. Go your own way
toward the woodsmoke &
nesting garter snakes.
Winter has crawled out of extinction —
out to mercilessly confront the human
ego. Make peace with estrangement.
Punch your attitude into rhythm.
The irony of explaining the years
we’ve lost — the years we’ll never know.
The hours to kill, the glass overpouring,
shatter later, & not my problem.
Brooke N. Plummer is a writer and musician from the Midwest.