Sail into the dawn from your compelled
interrogations; sail into the seat
of the west from your landslide, and let
the victory out.  They've come to know you
as the font of cruelty, but in your
religion the air is colder, and has shed
its wings.  There is so much more
of a spotlight on you than
when you first started.  Like the original face
of the moon, that kept close
behind you the whole long
winter, you were nothing
to me but heartbreak; you were the predictable
lag of inspiration, once the collar
tightened and there was no sleep to be found.
Tell me what they said to you
at the shrivers' convention, how they zeroed
in on you for your least lapse.  How the sky
got lighter, and refused
to take you into it.  You were the failure
of its project of self-realization, its
structural flaw.  Is there someone
else you can call to come
get you?  Sail into your last
legitimate song, and let the engines
out.  If they ask, say you're a refugee
from the city, where somebody's
always trying to frame you.

posted by michael  10:07:49 AM  
tell me about it []  trackback []