Monday, September 22, 2014

Tossing the Sticks


If it is getting colder, I am grateful
although I know that such a mercy won't stay,
because we've tossed the sticks.

We've tossed the sticks and now
we have to read them.

And I snapped those twigs in the night meadow.
I moved those rocks beneath the tent
and woke up raining.

Woke up sweating beneath spattering rain,
woke up from a terrible dream,
the stirring
of deep animal discomfort.

(Mosquitos will feed on the legs
of every lover. They always have
and always will.)

I scrape a scanty barrel these days,
these end days, although we all can agree
that it's always seemed like end days
to the species that invented apocalypse.

I will face this apocalypse with
my salty eyes.

And if I seem hard, it is because
I am hard. I am hardened. In time,
I've been shanked by a bone knife.

I very narrowly made out with my life.

In my strange dream,
there is no room for dead weight.

In my strange dream, I have
a hurricane lamp in my chest.

In my strange dream, I have

a hurricane lamp for a heart.  

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