SWEEPING AGAIN

Lost, this.
Lost, thus.

Goddess of sleep
descends.
Stream-of-consciousness

wages a feeble war

to defy
her armor.

Her edges pull down
A tent for the now-superior
stupor.

The brain—an organ
of electro-chemical
relationships,
toxic or devoid.

Transactions
missing
syn-
apses,
useless
syntax.

The final lime green flickers
of fireflies, a sad excuse
to peel the eyes
for awareness.

I am sweeping, this.
Sweeping, thus.

The broken china
and depression glass
lemon lime pink amber
shards to scoop up into
tomorrow’s dustbin
or the garden bed’s
cheerful mosaic (music).

Wearing the sweater-shawl
my father darned
or the flannel jacket of blues and grays
like his stormy eyes—
the jacket from too-many days
in the hospital, too few of hospice.

I am sweeping, thus.
To stay busy, distracted
from too many storms
on the encroaching
horizon
beckoning
their chaos.

I have seen you, too,
at the dangerous peripheries
of imagination. An outlaw
to tell the future.
Tempting the impossible.

Don’t look so afraid.

I am reaping, this.
Weeding the meaningless
and riffraff, flotsam
and jetsam after the ship
crash
into the pillar-stones.

Tomorrow I shall plant new
ideas and things
I’ll dream tonight
when sleep comes
with her white-down
wings
comforting the lost,
the downtrodden,
the petrified.

Tomorrow I shall awake
like you
and forget

all I need.

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