a dark house of clay, I turn
into a tavern. Drink the years
and lay down this like a slave. Stalagmites,
my pillow. Head heaving with

heaving billow. A life underground. A stop
in the round. The weathering of this
rock inside walls of chalk. I chip with
fiery chisel, grizzle haired. Carving

hieroglyphics. Noting the specifics
to some passersby. Like trying to catch
a fly in my hand/waiting for him
to land. And clocking his movements. But

seeing no improvement. No windows
or doors. But I've floors to walk,
and echoes to talk back at me.
Lively company!