CLAUSTROPHOBIA

Even death will be a relief
after all these days filled with
sunshinelice and beachumbrella
happiness; even the torso of
the sky does not smile so much
any longer; the daffodils
are no longer appalled by the blight
of the stock exchange; not even the
relief of springrhymeblossoms can cope
with the amount of deskwork
piling up like so many
tombs of garbage.
The staircase that leads to a realm of
endless spiritual butter is out
of commission. The doorway
that leads into the mouth of Eternity’s
False Teeth is shut.
There is no escape from the drought
of the cities. Even the harbours
are filling up with condoms that
are the mark of sterile
unease.