Tender mother sleep
lulls us speechless–
childhood mirrors bathe us
for hours in tangerine shadows,
whisked by fragrance
and pebbled with gray area.
We trip through a hole in the floor
nary an inch wide, but big enough
to engulf us once and forever
in haze and old-timey rhetoric.
Argyle suits beckon us further,
to the so-called country
and the wasps in charge of it
until they strangle all life
or die trying, mouths ablaze
and flies open, awaiting service.
WHARVED 