Helios revisited

Through the bottom of a beer bottle
the sun appears flaccid,
incapable of fusion,
and, I’m beginning to think,
unworthy of human sacrifice.

Betrayed

I accuse my friend,
my right hand man,
“You’re a puppet,
I cry, a dirty puppet!”

Ashamed, he twists away
a loose thread dangling
from his button eye.

Creed

In Flatland
we don’t believe
in your traditional
bond of matrimony,
which some attribute
to our excessive weakness
for love triangles.