having no meaning
is not a
sad nor depressive
state. it is
one of coolness
on forehead,
when pressed
to windowpane.
outside
Summer’s thunder-
storm rages.
mote of dust.
puff from floorboard.
old wooden house,
breathing.
meaninglessness is
a hammock
slung between two
weeping willows
at pond’s edge.
frogs
burp and bark.
insects buzz
a sex-fueled song.
wind caught
in tall Summer
grasses, parting,
brief glimpse
of old tombstones.
bodies underneath
green dirt, long
ago relieved of
their earthly dance.
zakschafer.com 