Poetry soup will not let me include the title of this poem as written.
The title is:
Ganesh in the Deeply Dark (Dawn)
so I am inserting it into the body of the poem, at its start, in bold.
Ganesh in the Deeply Dark (Dawn) I sit, sullen in this hot tub, grown warm. Here, I sit, grown cold, grown old. The stars seem dim, though neatly arranged. The dead leaves, having leached their green, beseeched their sun-god, having breeched their tip-top, up top, paraSol-top, having reached the high holy Pale Blue, having pleached in greens, having bleached those same greens, having (perhaps mayhaps perhaps) over- reached, fall silently around me. Joining my tears in filling this bath. The light, warily illumines the manuscript sky. Confronting my dark. I can’t read these stars. I can’t know my Way, my Fate. They say that if an elephant could speak, we’d still not understand her. Wittgenstein’s lion. The elephant isn’t. The elephant is... mine.
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