Near Dawn
The solidity of airwhere
a cigar recently burned itself short
makes me feel slow in motion, even though I sit still,
and only the World is moving, somewhere.
Still,
my thoughts are slower too, as if by suggestion they
stroll from smoke to air to smoke,
weaving
an empty basket near the ceiling,
ripe for copy in a classical still-life with fruits and cloth and a tidy worldview;
because that’s what people like me like to do.
When I sleep I dream of horror and of hounding Hell.
When I wake I dream of God and of order in the universe.
I do not know which is real, but I know there is
no rest for the wicked.
It seems my mind is too tall for my bed.
The thought strikes me that,
if the sky were less beautiful, I might go outside to see it.
How meaningless.
posted by : @ 5:20 AM
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