In much we may surround to advantage,
but love, not that, is all you shake,
to where the handiwork of fashion is
ensnared by admiration and anatomy.
Forget those stirs of yesterdream,
our rightful wealth is a cleaving cunning,
sunless yet shadowed in other minds--
sleep, in permission, is a purpose
sweetly overtaking, and thrifty
requitals of hell are dissolved,
and former murmur, salacious, friend,
a firmer hallucination accepting our wiles idly--
I've a pillow, certain as kingdom,
bottomless and hurled up from the vanisher world.
Who ate the sacred fruit?
What weather targets my home?
Which illnesses will I contract in time?
Will unconquerable debts ever relieve me of penalty?
Who cares? It is not yet morning.
Ray Succre (email@example.com)
Sent on 11th January, 2008
Ray Succre currently lives on the southern Oregon coast with his wife and baby son. He has been published in Aesthetica, Coconut, and Pank, as well as in numerous others across as many countries. He tries hard.
For inquiry, publication history, and information, visit me online: http://raysuccre.blogspot.com