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An afternoon inlaid with fog
like a little fishing village. 

Did I come at the wrong time?
Knicked with knife and soaked overnight, 

your thinking came out curved—
a paisley. I was hacking my way 

through creepers
at a defunct railroad crossing 

when I asked, If it's none
of my business 

why am I making a profit?
But as for you, 

nothing was going on in Kubla Khan
except that you were drawing 

your mind up before us
like a poison-stickled sea sponge. 

Your dreamy portals were greased
all afternoon by blowflies fresh from sheep— 

or sleep. I meant to say your sleep gave you
hours of swaddlings, 

narcotics,
interruptions. 

Added: 6 Oct 2002 | Last Read: 30 Aug 2008 2:41 PM | Viewed: 1792 times

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