Stuck in Craw

..
and clawing through
yet another box.

We’ve asked directions
(in? out? toward? above? between?)
and analyzed our own bright
dreams. Does it mean

that we must tell bold
stories in comic strips,
sit on indigo chairs until
the hourglass tips
toward some greater sand?

Hold my hand. Sledgehammer
my heart. There are no pearls
here, only grit and dust. No soft
white thrust of snowflakes
ever never the same,
no alchemy of just for once
perfection.

It can’t be helped.

I’ll lie awhile, perhaps,
and try to open up
the boxes where I keep
my sleep.

 

.
prompted by Quickly.

 

 

 

 

 

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