June 5 by The Running Son
I got a sun-dial to tell me
the rapture ain’t coming.
It’s long passed high noon;
I will leave this desert running.
I viewed from the highest
Joshua roost. Zacchaeus
boosted Caesar’s purse;
cursed desert gems loose,
then fostered one-tooth losers
and their Damascus pans,
and their asking demands,
and the bad sun-handling
and judging of both Joshua and Ruth.
I wont judge ecclesiastical youth
or the many bags grouping parts
into sun-dried piles
of dry manna-breads, and small star-keeps.
I’m in red-bourbon sleeps,
and manger blue-staring miles off,
into my heart-soaring dreams,
fed quickly, while they’re still fresh.
by Jim Aldrich
.namaste. -• ö.tH(ink)Mÿstiç •- .namaste.