Saturday, October 18, 2008
post-op
Not too far in, but far enough
to seem unreachable
the barefoot someone
strikes a match.

Needles, precious needless pinelands
with white sand shifting underfoot.
This is the way out,
the Way we hoped
would never come.

Stretch those static limbs, Lost One
and stumble across the stream
of ultimate eraser everlasting,
unbecoming again
and again,
and write your new name
with the retarded flame
of all things that will never be.
Written at 10:31 PM by kiai copy machine.
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