Fig From The Figment Tree

by Christos Polydorou

You are not here,
It’s clear.
It’s just me,
dancing like a wild man
to The Shins,
Figments of imagination,
James Mercer is singing,
it feels,
to me,

and though a heatwave
the untangling of violence is.

You burn me.
You wash over me.
In the age of vampires and zombies,
you are a saint.

Seas drown in you,
and the skies are turned upside down,
when you frown.
Have we pleased you?

Will this current offering be enough sacrifice,
and can you help us transform our lives?