Night's Work, Then Waking
sitting there watching the microwave and myself in it
looking from time to time
at the time
with music vibrating the computer behind me
making the world shake
this room and this time which is full to the top-mark with obligation
and this time in which I glance green words speaking askance at the terminal end
and my neck strains around my shoulders
bearing all the stress that I have been shoving up there
like some beaver damming, beating back
the high to low entropy force inside from busting.
my imaginary horse bucks me up a ridge and I see it then,
a view which was ever beyond, past the edge of the bush-hedge
is a field of red arrows cast upon the rusty ground
and it’s anachronistic in how I feel up here on this ridge,
looking down and outward at a great red basket emptying its blood into the prairie
and I am opening my mouth to eat the path it chooses.
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