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.
