STRESSED OUT

from the porch-swing

when Night — The Therapist of Restfulness — is even too occupied to be of solace

Photo by Nathan Anderson on Unsplash

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the portraiture of a
heavy-peppered,
lightly-salted
fall of night
was that
of ebb;
but…
i
felt
it coil,
the night;
it felt so trite —
too trite to treat
my plagues. it had
its own infamy & sweb.
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& as long as man is & is,
there’s a carry of the
night…that differs
from the days,
which in its
rabble, it
gulps.
&
i saw
it open,
the night;
it stood ajar —
it’s beauty was a
frightening: some
swift/reluctant hulk.
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but the days are not so
far from where the
night goes; they,
too, are heavy-
peppered
& lite in
salt.
a
purl
told me
once upon:
no moons nor suns
bide in the quick clay;
so, revise & re-rise as they.
they!…like free verses of alt-.
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