We, the spray-painted gold
macaroni holy men who hang
from evergreen branches, may
(before the season frees us)
rest our pasta hands. For now
pressing them together we
pray to our reflections in that dull
tinfoil star. That sketch of our
ascension to the apex may
lose its glue and peel off
our grain-flour skin like
dusty tape until we cease
to decorate. We swear
some component more
numinous than water must
hold our dough together. Yet
stuck to glitter in our dark
packing boxes, we lament
our accidental sun’s
indifference to the blue
light-years of night.
ISSN 2165-8668
I have read your poem several times now and each time I find myself wondering just what it is that the poet is lamenting. Is it that we humans are substantially like ornaments? Ornaments for someone’s pleasure? The tree: Of life? Empty. But not barren?
At least it has stood up to several readings.
Here’s to hoping it won’t fall over without further explanation.