focusing on one thing is how the Cyclops got his start
the one who was certain the tree that fell made a sound
a bleeder with no one to punch back
never reaching the higher dimension of a straight answer
the coaster keeps sticking to the bottom of my beer
a lone split-hoofed horse cropping tufts of Timothy
smoking alone in the prewar doom of my sulfur-yellow kitchen
flattening the creased pages of The Liturgy to Nintud
this is my catechism of frozen laces
when Quixote recanted I faced the giants alone
pissing in a jar I go to bed on the sunken side of failure
©2022 Patrick Sweeney All rights reserved.
Bedwetter in the germline of pyromaniacs and wild foxes. Constitutionally nervous, ecologically alarmed. Heart half-buried at Stinsford. A life spent dropping imaginary pennies off the Empire State Building.