As I sit at the keyboard this late hour,
It conjures from me what I least would think,
As conversation, danger, pen and ink
Draw observation out, as yeast does flour.
My personality, that pale ghost
Which only seeks to creep from bed to bed
With no surprises, hungry, radio-fed,
Puts on this sleepy mask and plays the host.
What I observe is all that I have got,
And thought’s imprisoned, useless, otherwise.
Only as anglers catch their fish with flies
Can you or I myself unloose one jot.
And so, for the third time, with some surprise,
I see cold-blooded life, and death’s black dot.
Thur 7 Sep 2006
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