NONFIGURATIVELY ME
the day of the post mortem
trying to piece you together
a deckle-edged tumour slid
into the picture…sad small
maple black coffin of
terror
roulette wheels babe-- able
to pull my own spills on
anything -- a hotel
lobby then corridors
collective doors where
knockers look like
miniature knights of
shining armor
hanging
swordless
only so far one can go
on Islands of pleasure
one mile long—Friday
nights are days off
remaining six
consist of
eight closet hours
of time—outside
castle walls
predictable
daily
menus
new version of the same poem
an opening stanza
standing alone
to mess with
closed minds
Non-figura-tively
me
© Kim van Breda—18 October 2015
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