November 10, 2007 at 10:19pm (Poetry)

Under the surface,

under the slick of oil

spreading over the slick

of conceit;

                     under the tock

of the me. me. me.

ticks the I. I. I.

that watches, watches, watches

as we die, die, die.

                          Waits and watches, watches and waits —

this unseen, unwatched, watching Seer.

               And we who have no house,

no house at all

                      (nor do we build one

on this chilly Tuesday

when Winter, crouching on its haunches,

stalks the Fall)

                      we, too, wait and watch,

watch and wait;

                        paint our lips with blood,

our eyes with death,

pucker up and hold our breath

in hot anticipation.

                            But, lacking inspiration,

mistake the mustard seed

between our teeth

for a bit of food

and spit it out lest we offend.

The end.

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