The piling up, the flood of sound, and a fixed star,
indolent interlude in the presence of a Siberian tiger.
I have not lathered my face
for this stilly no nonsense hypothetical;
I refuse to acknowledge threat, dream,
knive plagued playground,
explorations of an unremaindered past,
or dark wherein crocuses close.
Ah, pearl gray encroachment on a lavender siding.
Ah, that dark wherein I, too, have rested.
A crow and a greater dark,
a bracelet charm in a rain spout,
voices and moving figures,
finger pointing and clarification.
Escape in a subway entrance, emerging to a new life,
Horseless and no oasis,
A coconut mango mix and cherry blossoms off to the side.
An only answer, patience,
without awareness of the calamitous events,
the bizarre nights,
the waste-weary, vapid intrusion of day,
the uncooked meals,
excuses for two.
I am closing down,
a little dry rot,
a less than sibilant whisper taken for mind,
a perplexing darkness for sleep.
Frank Praeger © 2015