The ninth night is nigh,
panting at the doorway
with the tongue of a mammoth.
The bearer of bad news
lives in a hole in the wall.
His aura erodes.
The thrill of things melting
is melting into a paste
with no decipherable purpose.
The living room looks so empty
in daylight. I have been living
on an edible rubber-band.
Man, to think I am out there,
learning to spell my name
across the redwood pages
of whatever's silent,
of whatever's ancient.
The rough new prizes
handed to me, I keep
losing them among
glass and receipts.
If you asked me
for a mid-year review,
I would hold firm
to the rippling dream
that is progress:
I ache, I falter,
I am a poet,
hear me groan
and roll over.
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