Upon the laurels of evening,
I will ride
Or make my bed,
When the sun is turning in
To say its prayers,
And all candles are snuffed out
By evenings oblique,
That feeling of inadequacy,
The moon smeared on the windows,
And melancholy,
The beckoning of beds to bodies.
Tomorrow, I am Phoenix;
For now, I will decay
Into the shards of past
That remain
When all else is enveloped
In future
And lies dormant
In baskets on the porch,
Ears drooping
Onto the cold linoleum,
Waiting for breakfast
And the scraps that cling
To our plates,
And they will lick
Into the corners
Of evenings still unmade
With rough tongues
And leave loneliness drool
In shapes that resemble
Rings and fences
And 2.3 children.
It’s time to pass
Into my several world
And find the matrimony
Of easy-picking and wormless,
Fruit that doesn’t cling,
But doesn’t sing in harmony
With earthtones,
Blushing at the thought of the fall.
If such a place exists,
Then I will pitch my tent
And invite evening in for the night,
For a game of poker,
And for the chance to gamble away
Every orchard.

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