A memory of phenobarbital
at six years old…
But, why was fear here, keeping,
when through, and by, a frosting window, peeping?
And yet, his canticle with howling dreams, however eager each your ear,
and however you might lean in, and however you might to listen and be near,
and labor to obtain the incriminating ev’dence betwixt the glass,
and conquer his trouble, and fabley bind or discern what sounds abound and amass,
and tell with what learned and mastered lobes which vibrations
resonate within? Alas,
and yet, I reiterate, how much it’s me that pains to say, “Oh dear,
and must convey with melancholy what dismay I survey, when silence is all you hear?
When you woke with the dead? And in its sweat-bath, frigid and shaking so,
how misery, cries “…Forlorn, forlorn,” and sure with what is in its sight, whereunto
and rifles such weary somniloquy astir with woe,
and yet, from only a whisper from your soaked sheets and to your heels slapping in crescendo,
mother screamed as a train,
You will go to sleep, you sorry heap.
Do not think the moon your friend!
And the world was broken, burmese glass,
when the door slammed sound as black, and closed, again.
But ghosts came and stole a child as a puppet in their strings.
In the streets, they’re waltzing as abandoned pets.