Tender Mother Sleep

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.

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out /  Change )

Google photo

You are commenting using your Google account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s