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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