ayaladn

what to do

but look black

& be blue,

cypherblue,

turn’d to you —

plural you —

shall we that

on my bare head

I’ve a tester bed,

& several stairwells

up in spirals —

there’s no restin’ here,

‘tho I’m branchin’ often

whilom (I should

know this) I’m only

lookin’ for an address

(& lunch, I’m promised

that); here, I’ll stop:

down on the floor (7c),

two o’ these, as you call ’em,

black-eyed greenhorns

on their bloody toes,

fidgetin’ their widgets &

cuttin’ my trousseau

I’m immured,

I make murals

by mistake, I

use damp rags

the damper walls,

my purpose

lesser that

itself may do,

if time shall

stay away —

I’ll be quiet,

I’ll be quartz,

soft pallette,

this, or wild

it was luck now,

that my nanny

had a mama

& I spoke goat;

you just try

lisping that,

I’ve no choice —

but I’m sure

they stutter

or, maybe,

that’s, ‘what..what..’

a hopeless moon,

a heartless sun,

break upon

that vacancy

in memory

of nameless sum,

absent consequence;

old roads turn

aside there,

next to nothing

closer nowhere