The angels reclining in my ears tonight
insist this life is only a first draft.
As if they don’t know turtles
get just the one armored shell—
the reason why so many snap
vicious at taunts from kids or raindrops.
Truth is, there’s never been a spider
unsquashed or reinflated
or brought back from the final black
to address a misspelling on a web
woven over a precious pink pig
on the last day of the state fair.
And it is no children’s story, either.
Yada yada, the transfer of energy.
But even the sun burns down its wick
at which point I really don’t think
a restoration crew with pastel paint
will make much of a difference—
and I suppose in its own way that
is twisted comfort of a heavenly sort.
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Justin Hamm is the author of four collections of poetry, most recently Drinking Guinness with the Dead: Poems 2007-2021. His poems, photographs, artwork, reviews, and stories have appeared widely in literary magazines over the past two decades. You can learn more about his work at justinhamm.net.
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Stone Poetry Quarterly 