i bear no malice
at fey gods easily strayed
into hate & anger,
casting lots of green
into graven gray,
craven and cowardly…

no, i bear them
no bitter grudge…
but their groupies? yes.
they salt our wound
& call it a tender mercy,
fiddle-de-deeing in unholy
holocausts; come and
take them all! show them
their souls turnt out, until
bleating into deliverance,
they are burnt up soils,
their colluvial debris as
the house on the hill.

but, still… in all of this
manmade modern, this digital
& cheap metals, in the middle
of the misfortunes that mangle:

the sunshine, & a mango,
& two strong hands to pick
the gravel from the garden.