Tuesday, November 25, 2014

SO INCLINED

Feeling—
eventually

winter awake—
and thus 
far

far away 
from that burden—all
primrose

and pink tiffany—
of dull sleep's
palesoft prison

and its
ameliorating decor;

a little bloom
condenses
and clings—and oozes 
forth—waltzing on false
feet to manifest

vast colonies 
through my outter cerebrum—
to the effect that
all I want 
for Christmas this

year—is the same cornflower 

blue mug 
of black coffee—and maybe a little more of that powdery-

delicate 
goldtinned cache of
equanimous stuff—over and over and over
and over.

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