Residence on Earth
Snakes testify against us.
Also frogs, robins, and gnats.
Even the turtle we rescued
from Summer Street traffic disdained
our touch and wet my trousers.
The enormous arena of sky
echoes a silence imposed
by crisscrossing radio signals
and vapor trails casually sketched.
The ground we walk on daily
reflects ultraviolet ideals
while digesting all the infrared
shadows of original sin.
Our residence on earth is brief
and fraught with potholes deep enough
to conceal us until the sun
goes nova, expands, and absorbs
the last and most feeble of myths.
When I set that turtle in a pond
it swam a yard and then looked back
and sneered its righteous bone-hook sneer,
placing us where we belong.
William Doreski lives in Peterborough, New Hampshire. He has taught at several colleges and universities. His most recent book of poetry is Venus, Jupiter (2023). His essays, poetry, fiction, and reviews have appeared in various journals.
Pulsebeat Poetry Journal 