By April Capili
The bowl uttered, Oh here we go again,
Close and cheek to cheek,
Sitting pretty like a poet,
Wholly oblivious to the movements
Of the wide world without sound.
I’m no throne, you well know
Set high and apart from the vulgar.
You, no concupiscent Icecream King
Or chubby hand that launches
On a thousand ships.
Be still and listen, ye
To the green glistening prophecies
Of broken glass behind wings,
Red wheelbarrows among white chickens,
Golden numbers, glimmering glorious at night.
Stand erect, you, and turn,
Look me in the eye,
Refuse not this artful fountain,
Spurting truths from the bowels
Of romantically dissipating selves.
Look in my still waters,
Find yourself infinitely original,
Conscientiously fall in love
With the clear reflection
Of your own happy household genius.
Photo by Alexandria Somirs