has addled what little audacity I have left
Repetition erodes the tendency to deviate,
and one must have structure if not sleep
It goes one, two, three; one. two. three.
one..two..three..then begun, you, see
The mind is like a web; it works in associations
However, in stages of sleep, the web begins to wind
down, and you can’t simply pull the strings together
lest it snaps, and sings a stranger song:
Let it whelm you, pool at your ankles
Let this slumbering sea hold you afloat as an island, child
Buoyant be your breath as you are left on the burner—
stretched between the sea and sky—
a web with one, strained string. Body, gauntlet
of gossamer and circadian insanity, lay me to rest.
Bury me an idol, an idiot, an insomniac…