Night. Strange blue coming in,

my wild head eating up thoughts,

the clock’s noose around my neck.

 

And there’s a large number of sheep in this tomb,

about 2 per second,

for hours now.

 

There’s a thick panic when I discover birdsong:

it’s early it’s late,

it’s morning it’s night.

 

Perhaps a drink will soften the blow

as the quick hours fall

away into the dawn.

 

Get up and get to work, sad life,

know the poet’s

the lowest paid creature in humanity.

 

But still, as an alligator caked in cool mud,

eyes flicker

at the thought of the world.

 

With an alarming sound I get up,

into the universe.

I drift into the sun,

 

where I harden,

ripen,

and burn.