Should peek at balance. But I’d rather throw
Sight through slivered exposure in
Shudders. Tree sway. Ranking its
Visitor. Would excite light, but I
Don’t want to wake him.

So I’m here. Type.
On.
Device.
Shamed syllabic addict.
In dark.
Sheet atop crossed knees.

Send Self back to poetry
Prison. Till new year.
But is that wise,
Or just whimsical…

12/21/12