Poetry by
Gregory McIntyre

Lucas flicked his pocket lint To the breeze, ran to the trees. The lint did drift upon the field Past children—tufts of grass— It wheeled, and eddied higher Until a moment rendered it Unseen!

At last, unseen, the entrance lies Out in the skies, past weather vanes, Past clouds and rains, Past all the pains it once had been.

No more Viking gods to be, No soon dead princes No muddy reeds, drifting in a Ganges funk, No snowflakes caught in alpine seas.

This piece of lint had been all these And weary now of being needed, Freed itself of cosmic fetters, Left us, for a place that’s better Left to your imagining.