...emerge sober from a riddle of sleep
that lacks the sour swoon of sloshed regret
for you have not yet damaged your liver from drink
though the follies of night-REM still usher form through a fantasia
How does time arrive damaged?
For, you once held an anchorite in the womb
Now arms sprout and drift
through the poles of the globe;
as you gawk at the cleft lips of Pangaea
No comments:
Post a Comment