Gaslit ignition of a tender spark
now a flame to tease poetry's wheel aspin--
The ballad flickers like one of
Burrough's dreams
projected white and dizzying
on the mind's big screen,
no current to coast
reaching for the buoy of a theme
and a phrase turns over
a phrase turns over
a phrase turns over
waveless like a moon starved sea.
Pale pages to pale light and
undiagnosed neuroses:
a curse of the tongue
forever languid
or a slave to editing's defeat?
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