rifle shot from the foot
of a mountain.
No one's ever tried.
It's another rich assumption--
a posthumous treatise
on the merit of an uppercut.
Over six years here
and this new noise has arrived:
a creaking back-and-forth
like the rigging on a frigate.
I know it's only copper
of the heat pipes rubbing wood
but I'm grateful that it's waited.
For this I would have paid extra.
You think that you're the only one
who's asked these arms for waking?
Sirens in their songs
don't deviate from form.
Regardless of the calendar
they start to taste the same.
In dreams they all forgive me.
We sleep, and nothing more.
No comments:
Post a Comment