The bankrupt country
of my body,
having survived another long war
of sleep,
in slow to recall
its crumbling navies—across the veins
of dark salty water
and into harbors, where
all the citizens stand, sleepy and stuff
but dutifully
attendant on the shore.
But upon their arrival,
an august parade
is always quick to follow—joyous
and manic, it careens along
the corridors of
the warm dark kitchen—and over
the bathroom's
cold tile floor, to the place
where the fireworks are traditionally scheduled.
