Under Black Sails
questioning why the fog’s green
is my goodnight to the godless
and my good evening
to a hasty summer
of trains that don’t run on time
and rain that always wants to be first
with the freshest of the fresh
so the dance can bloom
on the great sloom’s deck
as it heads straight into a glare of cold
where the comatose lie
awaiting passage home to the dull life
the superficial love
because they don’t think
there’s anything else
when a person can’t be
like a garbage truck in paradise
that’s forgotten its way
to the incinerator