Wednesday, February 27, 2013

4148. HOUR OF PERIL

HOUR OF PERIL
Painting the hammock and marking
the fenceline won't get you home.
Creepy, how the diminishing returns of
still another project keep so many men at
bay. It is written in catcalls that we are all Divine :
creatures of sentience and light, but nothing
to show for it at all. I am watching the darkening
of another man's face - he stares out at the harbor,
asleep, from a fourth floor
ledge. Overlooking somehow
Brooklyn, from this east side berth, he really sees so
little, for sure, and his hour of peril is at hand. Creepy it
is, how one finds only Salvation to be had, or nothing
else to be given at all. Thusly, this pale life confuses.

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