Isolationism

Rainclouds burst like
soapsuds,
the trees bud and bud again,
imaginary ash falls from the sky
(which is not blue).

The isolationists hold
a party under
the shower,
in a pavilion of moth-wings,
their glasses raised: full
of everyday plasma (yours, or
yours).

One girl, in the middle of the crowd
demonstrates her
individuality,
lifting her skirts high enough
to be independent. Creeps
out like a dog when she is set upon
by hypocrites.

Just showing a little flesh, lads:
Entertaining the
troops not designed to fight.
Showing the world
what it means
to be alone,

this girl is self-sufficient,
her own hand on her own downy thigh.
Still, she is pushed into the acid rain
that still falls.

She lingers just
outside the pavilion opening,
listens to the laughter that is not hers
and then
slowly
dissolves into the sea
between continents.