My dusty green
second-hand
campchair
is planted in
weedy gravel
within
whiffing distance of
the broken
down
RV resort bathhouse,
cracked plastic
clips
mended with duct
tape. Shriveled
cottonwood
leaves chatter underfoot
in the
sweltering
breeze. Löwenbräu caps
compete with
plantain,
pullrings, broken glass,
and dandelion
for
space to root.
No beauty
salvages
knotted dry grass
struggling to
hide
on the low
hillside behind
me.
What do you
imagine I
see?
The setting of the seat—nay, the seat itself—
is but sound and fury, described by an idiot.
Come, O angels, where only fools fear to tread.
Rush in; rush in and be sanctified by the view.