When Chronos holds you
in his gaze, maybe
it's time to take
a step backwards across
the hot coals & ease
your way onto
the futon long indented
by your lumpen,
slumping form. Mourning takes
in its own cool way
& we come to a place
where you're so far
down that even the infernal
salamanders won't come
when you call. Looking
out through a moon-shaped hole
in you is psychosis, a bad
penny like an extinct pigeon
come to share the good
news: thou art about
to rise up from your chains
like a snail from its shell;
I've actually had better
Fridays; the mind is
its own place & needs
vacuumed & smudged---milord
only an idiot returns
to the scene of the crime.
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