Fuzzy balance
of positive and negative space
on a cape that I drape around me
to step outside.
The grey morning opens wide
And inhales me into its reality.
Here we go again.
/
I fell into fitted sleep last night
while listening to to
to the British “Sir” talk consciousness.
I read two of your books.
A late night compatriot who noticed
the emporer was still naked.
(“A new theory,” he said, “not another reinterpretation.”)
S/he should borrow
My houndstooth.
/
I awoke to your unannounced reentry.
There is nothing to take, hurt, or steal
but me
But, you could still lock the door
When you do leave.
WrittenCasey 