Something I ought to be doing
and I'm not doing
swarms about inside me
Bees of my father's voices
buzzing me towards an airy perfection
for my hands are empty
of forms to shape
Buzzzzzz Buzzzzzzz
go these voices:
the world is not in order
straighten the crooked picture
sweep the crooked floor
stack neatly the broken objects
Yet
this isn't enough
for the thunderous
stockmarket
outside my window
demands I run for my money
before the fall of silver and gold.