Indirection
by Richard King Perkins II
Two dragonflies alight
in different outpourings of shade.
In the stall, the man is decaying
and cringes like shrapnel.
The woman is brilliant
like broken beads of luciferin.
They are sacrificing
and giving thanks spontaneously,
emptied of pedantry,
hyacinth plants and the wringing of hands.
Humans push back at fatalism,
but fear dying
without a place for the soul.
Aerophytes spread to sunset,
while walls reify the light and breathing.
This is possibly summer,
but we are subdued by the loss of flight,
those gnostic trivia that will live beyond us.