Poem #109


1 April 2017

A successful sunset: the switches of lights sound
a summer superfluity of cicadas.

The band of a penumbra,
that pushes the curtain aside,
stirs a stygian shade from slumber
into strengthening sight.

His eyes inquire,
Is the interior
indigo and ivory

toward idleness,
their interrogations
issue forth, irritating
the inconspicuous
image of Arcady,

till Dante is installed
in their intersections
of illustrations

in an impossible injection
to initiate any interesting inversion
of insomnia.

The bed has been the base
of many a manic scenario,
and a likeness of my beauty performing fellatio
does nothing to cure this case.

There is a list of tasks that tease
the weary head: go to the bank,
clean the kitchen sink,
wash the loose laundry,
pay this bill by five,
all so this sensitive skull will live.

The ceiling is confused with the floor
in several indistinct flashes of feeble
flutters from eye lids.


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