The Thirteenth Hour

It is not something That can be tied Pulled to you with a rope. Nor laced and bound To feel its own every breath. You can not lay it on crust And taste it like lemon epiphany. You can not steer it By turning the wheel this way and that. Nor can you feel it By running your hand Along the wallpaper's edge In the middle of the night. It is made up of tinsel particles That only appear after the thirteenth hour. A nicotine fit A sour apple dream An oblivion kit A kiwi ermine scream A cutlass blade A bottomless well A peacock shade A pathos bell It is all and nothing. It is both then and when. It is the why and the how. It is the here and now. It is the snow pepper future. It is the black cherry past. It is diamond lust glory. It is every man's story.