In the turn of a page of bad fate
Out jumped the book of March's index
With each chapter getting worse
Each page finding a tear
The words crying out
Who's this author
With red ink
Spelling
Life
To
The angst
Of readers
Across the globe
Each character sad
Done wrongly, done sadly
Bottled and corked of stressed life
Laid off, laid idly, laid to rest
All eyes tear that the postscript breathes life


Logan Robertson

3/30/2020

The lilt of your sea
Is a mystery to me,
The form of your lips
A vast calligraphy.

The shape and stem
Of your new world,
Impregnated with maudlin and marrow,
And how it curled, instead of set.

You are remarkably
Cloud-hidden,
Less an end to everything,
More a furtive wellspring.

O sweet custodian of paradise,
Please measure out your turn of phrase
In the language of light,
As we enter into the uncreated night.