Thinking About Illusions

Birdmen by Kiyotei


Thinking About Illusions

I chose my own illusion...)
—Pablo Neruda

Since illusions are doled out
like bouquets
of canary, iris, and mauve flowers
neatly stacked in white plastic
five-gallon buckets
waiting for us at the next intersection.

Well, the truth is that illusions
every day get crushed beneath
the supple hooves
of a mountain goat
who's flowing white hair resembles
an angel recently escaped
from the local Catholic church.

There are green chirps beneath
the green canopy
of our fabulous maple
who's becoming a tyrant these days
with her glistening wet leaves
that create perpetual dusk.

A male cardinal injects his hypodermic
of morphine methodically into
the afternoon's green shoulder,
followed by six drops of mercury
rolling down the cracked pupils
of the religious icon's paint-peeled eyes.


Alan Britt

Posted over on Unlikely Stories