Wrapped in Paper and String
Monsters crawl in our brains,
simian too legged too colorful
always weaponed where
you can’t see when
they’re disturbed from sleep.
Really, let them sleep.
The unconscious we are not
responsible for – Ha! –
isn’t the erotic gasp ours?
With our eyes shut, we are alien
to ourselves. When gravity fails
and we amble the walls
like some great astronaut
getting rubber legs, it’s not easy
to flee, courage isn’t an appetite
that those who picnic on the ridge
watching smoke rise bring
wrapped in string and paper.
But the monsters close their fists,
the night self’s a stench.
