Time Out
the self says it is time
to go ashore and on the
island to the tent made of
that skin too thin forever
crawls into the sleeping-bag
with freezing dreams buttons
me up right to the brain pulls
indolence up over all the
senses bends sensitivity
tightly round my axis
rolls it up into a ball like
playing in my lap makes me
probingly rotate it round and
round till finally it tosses
blobs of colors up into my
head where splinters glide in
mirrored patterns like the pieces
in kaleidoscopes and the old
almost familiar galaxies are
circling round black holes
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