1707

They look for the world
Like perfect nothing could
Come shocking through them,

A trance more stable
And more succulent a wish
Flooding slowly from

Their feet into the sleeping
Reservoirs of time.
The closets are full

Of these broken clocks
Even today! when speaking up
Is managed not by whips

Or a bullet to the family
But an implication,
An imagined threat...

The imagination is more real
Than its linguistics
Can absorb, it makes

Of the visible spectrum
A sleeping nogoodnik
And a damn bad gamer.