You flap for open water to give you
Enough speed for your low angled assent.
The fluorescing against the unexposed
Film. And the new chemical exposure
Of early childhood impaled below
You. And the hallucinations to save
Yourself and the end of the Indian
Summer. And poetry is the last thing
Going to sleep. You can blend abstracting
Imagery in an elegant poem. To
Mine out the abrasive and in-your-face.
And attempt similar tactics to hear
The dry bones clacking like old walking sticks.
The path that turned sharp into the darkness.
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