6578. UP TOO LATE

UP TOO LATE

Up too late again, reading Hamlet again, and again

staging that game in my head. 'The change of words

would do me good,' I think to myself and work : 

'Oh that too solid flesh would melt away, or thaw,

and resolve itself to mist, or that the equally solid

God had not fixed his canon against self-slaughter!

Instead then, how weary, stale and flat and unprofitable

seem all the uses of this dreary world to me. To Hell

with it all! It's an unweeded garden that grows to seed;

the things which possess it are gross, and that is all

they hold onto no matter.' Then the late night bird

of darkness, as I notice, begins its shadowed twirl  -

late, late, and far too late for now. I must encircle

myself, yes, and guide away into another rounding

form of sleep and journey. Up too late again.