Every morning, I hear that
damn siren singing—with its inane
refrain repeating the lyric
about existence
being a guarantee—of nothing
more or less than itself;
with its singsong-y melody rising
only to fall a little more tragically
due to the specific gravity
that comes from measuring
the density of a pound of love
suspended in a pound of duty;
its thick counterpoint of doubt
and certainty weaving the texture
of a certain wine dark area rug,
the one I've been drifting on—
the one I soon begin to see dimly
as the one I must
eventually abandon ship
and whip the soles
of my cold and disbelieving feet at
to discover once and for all
whether they'll stick there
or fall right through
and sink at last
into that ocean—of unabridged
sleep beneath.
