3879. THE MOTLEY MANTLE WHEREON WE KEPT THE FLIGHT CREW WAITING

THE MOTLEY MANTLE

WHEREON WE KEPT THE

FLIGHT CREW WAITING

There's a fracture in the stars where sun and heaven used to be :

one unctuous moment now, rotating and swirling like vaunted

cosmic dust. Disjointed things, falling into place, to make the

accidental furtherance of other disjointed things more real.

We add to the disturbance as we pile on. Indefinite objects?

Items not well-defined? 'What is it you mean by all this?',

someone asked the God of chatter. It thundered back:

'Don't ask me that! My goodness now what's the matter?'

-

Ugly and hollow, and as dissimilar as leaves, we walk the

padded mud called earth, and still we complain on what

we see  -  Age, death, wonder, glee, all caked together

on sordid shorelines all foamy and tan with disgust.

What do we care? And why? This one solid finger

of what we name 'Time' is ours but for a moment

and then  -  by design  -  even it scurries away

and leaves us, over and over, with Nothing.