As the Toast Arrives – A Poem

A blossom
and a mourning
under branches stretching dark
across a white sky.

And then the running
with waves frantic thrashing ceaseless
over crystalline stone
and you in a rosemary malaise.

It may be a matter of time. It may be a matter
of intent.

There is a bitter taste to my drink.

There is a bitterness to the dance
of the masked gods.

A jest.

A violence which surges in
abandon to the melody
sung by a whispering ghost.

I am a part of that violence
and think back over our history and find it suitable.
We could never find comfort in
preconceptions.
You agree
as the toast arrives.

Leaves shift color from green to brown
and collapse at our feet.
A fog settles over the ocean.