In the Army of Wonder
ambition's reed boat of rest. Someplace
in the quantum mess, a funeral for striving
is winding down alleys that would erupt
into boulevards, if they could just get past
their dumpsters and the ragged ones
who piss on graffiti and wish for ships
to sail them home to the stars. Indigo's
not a color an artist might feature . . .
though it's the one most accessible
to the unimaginative. My eyes glaze to buttons.
Where has the pillow of solutions gotten?
It's a hard head that steers through
the fists of winter days, while a calm spirit
reconnoiters halos and filters the comets.
Must twins deny their sameness?
Lust in the gleam of a pear promises
the same decay, the same regression
into ancient habits. Foreign adventurers
want to claim this island, and I seem unable
not to defend this sandy foundation
of doubts and giftless effort. Hurricane
dimensions and welded shutters welcome
the sailor I've not become. A final float
drifts down the fingers, and I am only
as lost as I was before. The wind can't touch me
if I stay in this chair. Good night,
gentle planets. Orbit in good cheer.
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