The room is quiet but for the rustle of the blanket
under which he’d slept burrowed deep in the nest sense,
that wholesome dark down there, where he lay on a field
of old summers, on a gone-to-seed garden. His thoughts
fettered, chained and in the hold, he won’t let himself
think and sits hiked up now, naked to the waist, like a
stone in the bedclothes, his mind festooned on the angle
of incidence his life is taking, the robust weariness he feels.
think and sits hiked up now, naked to the waist, like a
stone in the bedclothes, his mind festooned on the angle
of incidence his life is taking, the robust weariness he feels.
