it all comes along in the low clouds
i bang a clumsy frame around it
made of night tide mystery drift wood
and
for guilt for life for sane
i
hang
it
on
this cyberspace wall
-
ball
deep
in the hinterlands
of
the
new
century
in its thawed swamps and dried ditches
in its improvised emergency drainage
my pre-millennial dread
my strange 1999 tension
when i stood before myself
in the let-down morning
seems
justified
now
-
the morning
is
teenage bold
kung fu wise
it struts
a breach
of light and letterboxes
and
wastes no time at all
calling out
the nights
quiet
comfort
fibs
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