TWO WEEKS FROM
I mark my place by lethargy, and
an army of ants running circles
through hot water. Lately they
curl up, to die. The city street
remains a nightmare, as we
each take tendencies of ants.
To the tune of the immortals, we
seem way off-key - leather-stroking
memories of happenstance and want.
They give us all, but we pick and
chose; these windlass ways within
a chalice. The myths of all those
ancient Geeks, thy're nothing
but orange-tongue decoration.
So let me alone as I take to the road :
farmers firing fallow fields; a torch
to the lickety splits.