Seat

Wet ancient beards saw
The seat of being
As a muscular davenport
Encircled by a dome of ribs.
Their thunder was the entrails
Looping below. Love was sated
In the loins, it made perfect sense,
And the earth being flat
Chained all the stars to the ground.
Grumbling gods determined
Fate, had walking-sticks for sex parts,
Having made all the things.

But in spurts revolutions came,
Meeting steely resistance,
Falling heads, a tumult of wrath,
That given time
Became self-evident.

poem by Stan Petrovich
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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