And Miles To Go

And Miles To Go

 

Some sleep's easy; it doesn’t mean you always should

blur telescopes to explore old memories beyond good,

beyond stellar, beyond that distant rim and left to rot,

not always, anyway, pressing hard edgy coins in slots,

pulling draws to get two or three less than the full tray

of cartoned Parliament, Rothman’s King Size, Embassy.

Some sleep's hard; in green touched blue dressed salads

quilted, such a good lay in diced amethyst and sliced red,

beneath oozed blood orange liquor on a plain lettuce bed

dripping sauce thick with sileage scents of years wilted

to hold fair passage of rusting ships on dun rivers silted,

we cough up good rich smoke, seal with lactucin sleep

purple thick thistled wounds who screw to drill us deep.