Meh

Adulthood is like an impotent unicorn,
standing on a hill, knowing everything,
on account of the sudden acquisition of binoculars.
I have the silvery-white mane,
and yet I cannot prance.
This unicorn is a being which worries
about avian flu and swine flu,
the direction of the wind and whether
it will bear mosquitos or meteorites.
This is a mythical being that fights its brothers,
that leaves a hoof print on a chest
for the sake of that canal or this one,
the control of a bright green pasture.
The acid rain from the burning of coal
streaks its hair in the dirtyness of knowing,
and the throat closes slowly and silently,
like the collar of a kimono drawing tighter.
Is there any way close the eyes and not
see the suffering, to not know greed,
to not count how big one's drinking pond is,
is there a way to frolic back to
orchards of citrus, planes of light,
sparkling things where existence
meets no political or geographical boundaries?
There is an impotent unicorn, standing on a hill,
closing its eyes and concentrating hard
on the smell of oranges, the feel of wind.