Monday, August 18, 2014

GAUZE

The pale lonely child 
of monday
morning's mind

that I seem to
be living—so dimly
inside of

must be 
feeling foggy 

slow 
and serious
as an ugly plaster 

cast today—

underneath
its thick
narcotic dome—lugubrious soup

of shapeless clouds
puddles—
unimaginatively still;

and probably somewhere 
off 
and unseen—even 

the brightest—
and most
unselfish of songbirds

is saving 
his usually—generous breath.

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