Fleshed on bone and dressed
in charcoal cloth
he’s still more neolith in awe of winter solstice
lying sleepless listening
to lightlessness of night
or a lovesick chimpanzee,
in how he looks at skin of his and hers.
He finds it cold
with bony fingers as he counts his ribs and hers and
wonders why —
he always gets the same.
He studies bones of apes and
comprehends that being man is neither being
pinnacle nor creation.
He opens up a bottle of his best Bourgogne
and drinks himself into a stupor in
deception of supremacy.
Kerry inspires us to write with a single photograph at toads again. This I could not refrain from think about the stories of creation vs that of evolution. I will also link this to Poetry Pantry tomorrow morning.
December 2, 2017