All hell and water high
I count the numbers passing by the gate
effectual and mixed and prescient
and wondering little by little why
things turnover and loop back at ten.
Nine and eight and five and quarter till
breakfast lunch and spanner meals
and fueling for sleep and activity stretch
and punching bed spreads like
bricks full of coins and magic.
Through the fire and flames and the heated
insides out. Why are tights so hard to put on
in the stories of the land that never appeared
in the same place twice.
The air is cold and the window won't open
when the rest of me shills for sweaters and
skin water and jersey fabric spreads
and I'm gunning
for an early night though there's still
so much to do.
I would really like to cultivate
leaves of grass to ply my
trade and lip murmur schooner
and cast off the shore by the gate
where the numbers gathered
to watch me wait
for an opening between their
curls and marching points.
One eight five six four two seven.
No relation, but go ahead.
I'm too sensitive
to rub up against you lot.
Crossed legged and stuck
with these hands and bones
and muscles and crying and
burning up in this coffin.
