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