Psalm
       

I can't keep track
of existence.
One day it's a cuckoo,
the next day moldy bread.

Someone reading Dickinson
looks up,
takes a sip,
lives again in Circumference.

Nero, I grant permission
to burn down
my neighborhood,
its yacking nightingales.

Someone steals past
with a psalm in his heart,
its grit so certain
jackals back away.

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Copyright © 2016 Jeff Hardin All rights reserved
from Small Revolution
The Aldrich Press
Reprinted by Verse Daily® with permission