Monday, August 15, 2005

Waiting for the cactus

It’s purple outside:
in ten minutes
it’s dirty milk,
rebellious grey swabs,
faintest eastern pink
cloud wash.

My internal clock
dead on purple.

Besides the succulent chaos
of a brain ajar
as I seethe through
the muslin
of the nightmare,
ramble rooms,
the constant upside
is not this
stealing of hours:

it’s knowing one morning
I’m going to catch
that cactus
just when its latest
tiny spurt of growth
shatters the terracotta pot.

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