I'm Under the Soup Spoon of Alaska

I’m under the soup spoon of Alaska,
not in the sun. When sky blends into
desert, even clouds melt.

I tried something new, but I don’t know why.
There is something rich about the lilies of the field
and the porpoises of the Pacific,
but my worship often reverts
to calves or crowns of gold, or groundedness,
securities, or past or future ghosts.

The inevitable is harsh; starkly walling,
but undiscovered freedom is a pity.