A Sea-Saw Memory

impossible tired, marks along
the winding trailing off, now called home
the thin, precarious hairpin bend
the two-steps back for one ahead

the id hazard, a guess: all’s not well
the turbulent coast, waves on a rising swell
as the sun in her smart histrionic display
coaxes the night and politely coquets

but from my reared view now
I am still: that child,
alone at the sea-
saw: for miles,
just me

sat with a sickly sense of sweet
that won’t last: like ice cream
melting too fast

and a head:
bounded by sallow fodder
bound for fallow sod or
sweat desert cones with powder tops
a confection white, a salt lake shore
and by Convection’s might,
nothing more

but if Convention’s right,
I’ll find Out soon
(or else I’ll get what is in store)
and I’ll pay the price
for the ill I’ve done
and then settle down
for a while

but this engine runs
on hubris and speed
and I take no wrong turns
too carefully

and this engine runs
on ennui and greed
and I don’t change course
graciously


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