Saturday 8/01/2009 12:51:00 AM

Lost in number four. The moon on all five legs. Crawling across the glass. Toward the door. In a vociferous dance. Bare feet and shimmering gowns persuade her nightmares to whisper. Though the dream is loud.

Go to bed. Go to bed. The world doesn't notice.

Rid me of this time machine she wails. This constant catapult under my flesh. The more I move through time the harder it is to want what I've left behind. Shouting graves and woeful ghosts press the buttons on a dying host.

You're already there the walls say. Inside that box. And gone from us. A mad biography of someone who never was.

Lost at four. Found at five. She tries on the blunt malaise of touch. The fruit boasts its thorns. She bleeds well enough. The moon convinces those windows to open. She sees nothing.

But the nothing is closer.

| Alcoholic Poet Home |
Copyright 2005-2024. All Rights Reserved.