Wednesday, February 1, 2017

SCARED OF SOFT

The nights feel too long, all
hoary and

grave
where you are,

with or without that television-
length attention

span you got
born with.

What dreams do come
always

come
vacuumpacked—

free inside bundles
of market-rate orphanage sleep,

are always
that spooky kind of Disney cartoon grayscale;

where it's—CAUTION:
Don't feed those anthropomorphic

wild yellowtooth dogs
so much of that full moonlight spilling

over this sequentially-repeating-to-
infinity yard.

The authorities
can't blame you

for keeping track
of the silver

and gold in your molars,
but remember

you're not an old man yet,
you're still

just an orphan;
it isn't that hard:

fear the beer-
belly now;

worry about that
sticky-fingered

bonedigger—
later.

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