thistle
the clockwork toys that pop from boxes disappear
the tricks and terns that play upon the deceptive wings
sly balloons entice your head to stick between the railings
the crows that do mad somersaults on blustery ploys
false gold in hematites and bright corals snap or fade
dynamic or subtle though they are
none compare with the wrangling dupes and feints
of human games in people time
we may watch a sport within a sport within a race
at anger redden in the face and be found panting
up by crafty corner or prickly in the ditch
thrashing in the thistle spines and nettles of deceit
and all this from what we would see as nothing
a slight difference in the take maybe
a view from another window but still within the same homestead
one might think but this very situation is frequently
the most automatic and acerbic
when the division clock strikes within the household
and time is rent in many fragments each with its jealous moment
it chimes the history of prejudice
it clicks and whirs the clockwork of affront
and malice tips the brass escapement
and all the gears go whirring free
the dials and hands and hates and time are circling round
in mad abandon