Cupid’s head, decapitated, set in stone, 

Mounted as 

The

Fountain-head, spits A

Stream of water, 

Which arches and frames,

Park grass 

Overlapping the horizon,

Adorned with picnic tables, 

Shelters, willow trees 

And

The occasional dandelion.

*

*

Black specks leap

In the distance, additional focus 

Transcribes taxonomy 

Adjusts their shapes and adds fur, 

Whiskers, bushy tail.

Shadows remain as fashion 

Without clarification. 

It’s obvious 

Another silhouette follows a lilac bush

And the woman reading,

A Critique of Pure Reason 

Builds her profile atop the concrete,

But when alone with the shadows

What remains?

*

*

Love? 

An impervious illusion. 

Marketed as moral superiority,

But broken down to words 

Amounts to failure.

*

Art?

A blanket term 

For the human condition.

Subjective, yet, conforming to 

Mass appeal and the same melodies 

Sung among capitalists and preachers.

*

Miracles?

Yes. Shadows are hallucinations.

Built to censor questioning,

Of what remains

When the lights go out.