A thin line of cherubs haloed Mount Wheeler.
I spied them from William’s Lake.
I was there to be by myself to meditate.
Forty people picnicked.
At first I thought the cherubs a smoke ring
blown by a humorous god.
When the cherubs passed over
remaining patches of snow, I recognized them.
A bearded prophet abandoned his mountain cave.
He walked past the picnickers.
He snatched a chicken leg
and an unattended can of Coke.
As he passed I heard him mutter repeatedly
Fucking little harp playing shits.
copyright © 2023 Kenneth P. Gurney
My life rustles.
Doubt strengthens my faith.
The knife that wounds me
strikes mostly nothing.
My glass is full of hunger.
And the eruption of distant stars.
It is easy to think wind blown trees
swat the sky with their leaves.
I discovered this old slowness.
I embraced my obsessions like a prophet.
sunk my ship of state in heavy waters.
There I am on turbulent seas
afloat in the lifeboat of forgiveness.
Void and expanse are not good names
for what exists between stars.
My molecules are interested in being me
for only so long, then they go.
copyright © 2022 Kenneth P. Gurney