Looking at the Big Dipper
in the April Ohio sky—,
as it’s raising up its handle
and lowering the bowl—,
made of Merak, Megrez,
Phecda, and Dubhe—,
I wonder which souls
among us—it wants
to scoop and lift—,
and who on earth pines
so much for a company
of Gods in order to take
on duties that are bigger than
cooking a dinner or running
people-grinding wars—,
and hoping to be lucky
if the Big Dipper
isn’t moving
to graze this plane
just off some pricks
who always think
that they are these Gods—
central bellybuttons
on which they cannot
help but gaze—,
and thus hardly
doing anything else
about the State of the Universe—
Great Union—,
Click clack
I hear the Big Dipper
over the roof of a
tithes-filled church—!
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