Saturday, March 20, 2010

Morning Coming Fast

The faucet drips,
keeping time with
forgetful sun, and
the oysters sleep unaware,

darkness clings to my room,
on chairs and bed frames
casting silhouette, and maybe sadness;

A boys dream
somewhere happy
someplace died,
whatever remains in comic books
and side scrolling video games,

Tally them up to
something lost- four strikes,
a diagonal is five-

the future presses on like the sun,
in my room
coating everything
in shining gold,
the burn-
I close my eyes,
the oysters lie.

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