I remember the puddles and tensions, I see
the cruel boats thrashing against the gate.
I couldn’t resist floating there before
the chime of meekly barking fetters.
I took the silence and snapped it,
and forgot remembered forgot.
The King stood there shivering,
soaked to the bone.

He coughed at the crowd: The big guy
was harmless now. How torrid to magnify
this cloudy downfall! At the axis, however,
there was something tantalizing, a few
gunshots and a morbid rambling:
One, a hooker, called him “Honey,”
and got away with it.

In a limbo of sad, soft crowns, a line
was about to be lost between us.
His power was blurring, he whose glance
could kill, whose snout yesterday
could fling dread, now dripped,
and the rabble whistled and relished
every drop of it.

I was the stuttering monster who accepted
his doom. But he was coasting
on the past.

Life moves on, where are the miracles?

It’s twelve o’clock, I wish
it were eleven-fifty-nine.