No pleasant times are nights like these
full to an edge of mysteries,
so oceanic weighed and ebbing, too,
until the sea makes up the dew
of earlier hours yet to arrive
when muscled throats, the hour five,
will lyric any resting ear--
my feathered friend, now not so dear
to break the pillow from my cheek
with his manic song across'd his beak.


Still and now the draperies fly,
occasioned by the stormy sky,
to lap the dust long since remained
as I have not yet elbow strained
to remove it to another cloth:
bespeaks me, mirror of the sloth.
In mind the same, inherent--nay,
as cumulus upon a summer's day,
yet ever weary of self-care work,
often left defined a thinker's quirk.


Lo, naked at the ceiling stared,
I muse the cobwebs clinging paired
to dance inverted on some ballroom floor,
all left by self-same lazy core:
that is me there, imagined high
among my webs, my dust, my sky,
and should any guess the purpose pressed,
that winged-back chair is better dressed
to host than he there in my bed alone,
the dutiful thoughts of the ego's bone.


This is my night tonight, tomorrow, too,
the fitful rankles of an undone screw
not lodged but loose within my room,
never taut by cloth, book or broom,
a 'because' forgotten as the window ajar,
thoughts as winds as near, as far
perhaps as dew yet to be supposed,
or that robin-breast throat I once purposed
to liken asleeps to another day
on which they counted in which to stay.


And friends the simple meaning spent
is what's about is already went:
no, gone! you fool, to the thoughts just past
as wondering if wonder is somehow gassed
by inside or outside of the brain's confine
and drawn together in webs so fine,
or whether by the winds as wonder drape,
we catch, plug in, horde or gape
at open windows and dusty neglect,
the will or cause , as some suspect!