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.