The blue of ink is penned & paper shredded
my work dust coded & perfumed by the sticky
syrup left in coke-cans, the moon is mid night
mind making for home feeling along my rope
hand over hand pulling in the swaddling sheets
waking lost by its waiting for sleeps exhaustion
dark victory laps the hours achieving nothing
but the shiny white bead of me rolled in cotton.
If you've any comments on
this poem, John Hall would be
pleased to hear from you.