Poetry and Poetics
THAT IS THE CASE
He was tired, and there was work to do, a desk-load
of files, a telephone. Deadlines. And yet his mind
Refused. He could think of cut dahlias and the cheap
vase on the laminated table. Never profit margins.
Instead an old china plate, blue willow, and the single sausage
with its precious patina of grease—while just beyond
The horizon of consciousness hovered a forgotten image
not from a dream, but the hypnogogic crucifixion
Of last night’s insomnia: the earth as a blackening smudge pot
tracing across the firmament its dark-matter
Spoor, viscous residues of everything dying, smog
of extinguished virus, char of bromeliad and whale.
. . .
But first the crazed plate. The files. A scattering
of petals. And always the excellent sausage.
© by T.R. Hummer
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