Refuse in the oceans.
God’s things caught in its mire.
In a come-lately penance,
I think of small atonements,
futile fixes.
If a poem had power, had sway,
or could be born of a prophet,
sleep might come more easily.
Still, I count the sheep of days,
the fish in a river’s flow…
***
image: https://pixabay.com/users/a_different_perspective-2135817/
Aremyfeetofftheground 