Keszthelyi Timi

To A Terrarium

Who can question
the promise
of an empty terrarium
encased in prophetic shrouds
of green bubble wrap,
snug, stately, owned by ideas,
a pair of Doc Martens
wedged in the hollow
of its spindly legs,
for a lifetime of transit,
of prodding and fixing,
perhaps even breaking,
toppling, shattering,
spilled over the floor
like coughed-up lungs,
the symbolic trajectory
of a planet
placed in the hands
of insane artists and thieves,
where propagation
and playtime
have run amok on a field
so thick
with mud and blood
the roots have disappeared


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