Refuse in the oceans.

God’s things caught in its mire.

In a come-lately penance,

I think of small atonements,

futile fixes.

If a poem had power, had sway,

or could be born of a prophet,

sleep might come more easily.

Still, I count the sheep of days,

the fish in a river’s flow…

***

image: https://pixabay.com/users/a_different_perspective-2135817/