sleeplessness is like hypnosis
or alchohol,
intoxicating and redeeming
and it gets me nowhere fast
except for awkward
uninhibited remembrance.
stolen time,
i'm running like a land mine
(that is to say
explosive but stationary,
bound to be underfoot).
do i stumble merrily
eke out my life
like some people that i occasionally admire?
or do i chase abstractions,
try to grasp the sunset with
misunderstandings and twinkling eyes?
there's nothing like believing lies.
for now i huddle
blanketed in snow (and blankets, too)
and content to live with you, you,
and you,
and you.
3 comments:
je l'aime
(translation: i like it)
i love this but forgot to tell you
if you mean it was less visceral and passionate and patriotic than normal, then yes: that was the whole point. that's why we're all going to cry to emily deschenel. (i feel like every time i write that name, i find a new spelling, sort of like every time i drive to your house i take a different route.)
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