| I Suspect I suspect my escapist Fingernails and toes - Grounding into splattered Tiles while drones of Fans and minute screeches Of chairs and shoes continue - Are all beyond my control My totalitarian tendencies. There is a coup in my mind To rise above the heads And small pen marks On clean white sheets Tip tip tip of pencils And swim in the hum lights Omnipresent through Yellow, deep-eyed sleepy Tongue bodies - slouched Sat, straight, bright and Great - detached. |
| Youth (working title) Smiling once I thought I could push myself to mortality, Take hold the cup of life and spill it out Bring the mercury of my soul to a final boil, Or distill it down, to the finest measurement, And drink past the dregs, Until I vanished into myself. |