72-hour Hangover, Shards, Upon Falling in Love with the Poet & First Thoughts on a New Subject

72-hour Hangover

Possessed by some unhandy spirit
Voices imitate miles
I’m away

Instantiated in wrists and muscled
Bone that’s volatile I’m laid
To waste

Awaking without having slept
And thoughts raced like dreadnaughts
My heart sinks into my diaphragm
And pounds there consciously
Loud.


Shards

Funny how they next-door live
So contemporaneously with
This house, but our times are
Different. Laughter, cheering,
Jibing, jeering; they are all, young
Men, moving towards their goals.

I am old, in this gaol, among others
Young but untold, and misinformed.
Dying or infirm in a bed clothes’ reek
Of stale half-dreamt mismatched
Mutterings and, struth! apropos of
Sanatoriums; my house, halfway.

Seeming universal the time that
Holds us in this space, as a felt
Oneness shared. But as shards
From a broken vase of place
Come our positions in hierarchical
And societal fare…


Upon Falling in Love with the Poet

Where is a warm place,
Like a hug, to entomb
My inner frayed incentive
And restore to good faith
That half-dissolved love
Of a life led yesterday
With you? It’s here.
Our thoughts coalesce.


First Thoughts on a New Subject

Your countryside eyes
Bright with possibility
And pretending to assimilate
The knowledge of things
From leafy pastures green
See the mud of the sidewalk,
And trampled into it become
A softer focus of love.