my poor wife! all i ask of her is telepathy,
maybe some antlers, the ability to eat
glacier and spit out flame. lawyers on
radios say this happens all the time.
still i’m queasy about turning our
backs on the view off catalina. or
even a grub eating a leaf, nazareth
miracles on stained glass windows.
don’t tell the starving children
about the buffet left untouched,
the five-star gourmet dumpster.
skies as plush as a child’s toys,
mountainous clouds tumbling
down barton, farther down a
rust-coloured stain, relentless
as gangrene, and aldermen
building castles out of sand.
the sign says yield but i’m
too stubborn. in a frenzy
like before the evacuation
we take heat lightning
as a sign of the divine.
angels or mirages, go
ahead: surprise me.
Darrell Epp is a poet living in Ontario, Canada. His poetry has appeared in over 120 magazines on 6 continents. His third collection, Sinners Dance, was published by Mosaic Press in April. Read an interview with Darrell Epp.
Featured image by Martin Adams