Friday, May 02, 2014

Restless Leg Syndrome

The evening winged like an ant,
frantic and ill with the burden of flight
and a desire – unfamiliar –
for things beyond its light.

An ill and an expensive sleep,
all twitch and haul and fling,
shadowing, shouldering on
the discontent that mornings bring:

the second skin rolls off in flakes,
the wings drop off the chain,
the large head is aching then;
the six thighs crawling with pain.

Fields of seablush and camas lily;
fields we knew when the world was young

1 comment:

Marly Youmans said...

Interesting to see you moving more firmly toward the formal in this and some others.

Like the ant-winged evening and the strange wakening.