The Chance

he lives under a cyan rock. and
his wings are cut. and
his fly is stale. what
he does is a mystery
to himself even:
automatic shufflings and
a lazy rove of the eye
occasiaonal marches into
the unknown. only
to moon away to his
rock again:
all the attributes of
an arbitrary existence.

his battles had all been lost without
due commencement. for
change in the local store
he gets pale dead leaves .
his wife used to wear a cyan wig
unless every one knew that
he had no wife.

his eye lids are plumbum heavy and
his lips are arsenic parched. when
he utters a sound it is scorched into
the listener's soul. the mercury of
his words can last:
even if you once forget
it might resurface in your other life.
yet he goes by unseen and
his eyes cleave numbly to
the wet asphalt of long autumn rains.

but perhaps sometimes
maybe once a month or even less
he opens those weary eyes to
look up
and
count the pining stars.