
Last Dispatch
They do not probe anuses,
nor are they green.
That they are encased in machines
is indisputable.
Like hazy ghosts, they are notoriously shy
of being crisply photographed
— in a world of paparazzi
and ubiquitous camera phones.
Some say they live on moon or under seas.
They seem to be just passing through,
fascinated with this plane of Love.
There is no gift ritual — no tools nor toys, alas, for us
save for them consuming Time
— their life-fuel, perhaps — and the Love they find,
which may account for why
we are running short of both...
Clive Donovan
If you have any thoughts about this poem, Clive Donovan would be
pleased to hear them