we mortgage the unspeakable. we fit small bowls into big ones and speak on misdeeds
that rhyme with chrysanthemum without the letter ' M '.
from an upside-down star

weaving cauldrons of unguarded hope
jiggling in the gelatinous yammering
of a misguided baby god's night terrors  

and you still gotta go to work in the morning.

and for sleep. what's that ?