The Plains of Asphodel

Nothing bad happened.
Nothing good happened.
Just another day on
the plains of Asphodel.

No appointments missed,
no announcements came.
The moon dipped
her wrists in tides,
the earth went ‘round
the sun again.

I rose above
the spectral blooms
to be noticed, rescued
or cut down.

A feckless air drabs the sky
in softened muddy, loden hues.
And a river lolls—cool and dark,
indifferent, dead; just painted there.

Abandoned to this field of ghosts
its grasses clutched in sucking clay,
I wait among them, as pale and dumb.
Nothing happens, good or bad.


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