While the World Goes On
Olivia Meyer
Today is the age
of the slow-season slip
and the covers
split,
open words slide off salt bloated pages,
pigments melt from those highest hung frames, dripping
down white walls
like a water colored sky dripping down
the country’s side
and here we sit
Two shopping carts in the River Forth
sun bleached and rusty
as this black and white world
trickles on
the run off spins our wheels
on old hinges
tired
bored
just for the sake of it
I don’t think
the water thinks anymore and
I wonder when we will be one in the same
there is a small seed of dread in my basket but
I will
be gone before
it gets the chance to grow
spurred by spring
or whatever the world calls it now
moved by the current only
as doublethink and vermillion blotted skies pass us by