poem of nothing happening

at the end of the day
nothing to say
at the end of the day
nothing to say
at the end of the day
nothing to say

Take a look at this – failure? refusal? incapacity?

Atrophy of the imagination
or willful neglect of objects waiting to be generated

Sitting in heaven
on their lily pads (as we used to say)
waiting to be born

I have some vague compassion for them —
their transparent, mottled skin
and clouds of tangled hair —

but their essential passivity —
no teeth, no thumbs —
makes me hate them
after all