Fate has a way of preserving

One’s idiosyncrasies.

I am, having previously wrought.

Events do not always

Proceed their immediate beginnings.

Sometimes the consequence

Comes in the night

Like a bottle-necked stranger

To slake all effulgent protrusions.


My mornings itch,

Poultices damp from sleeps’ gyrations.

I unwind myself,

Carving features into the scabrous mass

That has become my life.

A caricature digs into my shoulders,

The great weighty head,

My mother earth perched

High above a lagging Atlas.