Wednesday, August 24, 2016

Untitled, from 'PTSD notebooks'







Am I wrong to hear the wren or wait, sliding each

Effort at harm into the past of all cerebration

You might have dropped me in? If I could only be

In-law, like, small enough. If I could respond or else

Learn to become those thoughts held back: I froze

Down blind to you sweeping me incertain


The deep night's never blue. The sigh-in

About conditional life trips over the weft of each

Wasted contemplation. Were I out of doors

Where wolves fear no swift autumn infamy

And not nested dark halted by the bent control

Of closet-rooms that silence no coming bomb


Self's certain there's courage without changing that

Other night of the wren to be saddled grey in harm


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