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Happy Tempests

A wicked pane of glass

or perhaps of neck and mind

through which the only thing that’s seen

is the usual odyssey of muted gray and green

Birds chirp, as, you know, they do

While Mother’s clicking in the second room resumes

And I, meanwhile, still, lie

in a reflected chamber

and, still, vaguely wish to die

It’s a sentiment, nothing more

though I’ve entertained its better elders many times before

But poppies still force serene

and I gaze though pained through panes

at what inside, out I have forever seen