Opinions

our opinions herd

on the hillside

like cattle

our words are the turds

that fall in the meadow

from the asses

of the very same beasts

that feast on

these very same grasses

we imagine

in that meadow

how we’ll catch

the last monarch

sipping sweet nectar

from a nameless flower

back home we

look in the mirror

find the appearance of god

stare out the window

spy the enemy inside

we pretend the flutter

of our butterfly’s wings

still troubles a star

as we twist tight

the lid on its

empty mayonnaise jar