The sky

Exhausted now

Settles back on blue

High count

Egyptian cotton sheets

And pillowed on

Wet earth

Falls blank

With sleep.

And we have time

To tidy all the clutter up

Before the quickening

Below comes

By the truckload

Busting up

Its packaging

Shoving up green and

Breathes the mess

Into a messy wind.

Some days you want

To quit

Confess futility

Sit down

And let the whole thing go

You don’t

Of course

You start

Picking stuff up.

Small wonder the ancients

Had mad and messy gods

And knew the plan was

Made up as it went along:

An endless soap

Where we in minor parts

Squeak by on offerings

Of burnt calf meat

And anonymity, shake our heads

At greed, flesh lust and folly

Do our jobs

And wait for Sun

At long last

To burn out

And night dark sheets.