Opening and closing (in this draft anyway) to a poem tentatively titled "The Tangible Inn":
At the Tangible Inn, M. Abstract takes a vacation...
...The hundredth door is made of warnings, and the lock
is made of fear. But behind the door is a black horse
M. Abstract wants to ride, so he will enter, he will ride
across the dome of Ymir's skull, he will be thrown.
Come lunes, M. Abstract will return to work missing
an eye. We all know the story by now. We do not ask anymore.
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poem for my 59th birthday
1 week ago
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