A Great Lakes' Theodicy


The lover hers never bested,

  mystiqued to shadowscape me, goating torment.

Mystery of mastery became


Mistakery, her echt of skid:

  Dave from Grand Haven—better should from

Piscataway, and Edmond, an unCount-ed Fitz.—


Lud’s last hip wrecked on a beer-surf inland drunk,

  Hewn-Ron sinking anchored iron-eyes

    downward to skud Chebar turquoise


upward from outscaped rust, launched into the abutting

  eros-erosive airs up long Mackinacked way;

Naw: thereway—theirs, a Möbius ever there-ing,


Screw you, Waylon, we’re dancing.


But me: Attendant, changing shoulders.

  Ever horizoned slipping by sacred,

Though she sits just across a table,


abluting the inscaping hard nightly settle.



--Douglas Blake Olds

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