An afternoon inlaid with fog <br />like a little fishing village. <br /> <br />Did I come at the wrong time? <br />Knicked with knife and soaked overnight, <br /> <br />your thinking came out curved— <br />a paisley. I was hacking my way <br /> <br />through creepers <br />at a defunct railroad crossing <br /> <br />when I asked, If it's none <br />of my business <br /> <br />why am I making a profit? <br />But as for you, <br /> <br />nothing was going on in Kubla Khan <br />except that you were drawing <br /> <br />your mind up before us <br />like a poison-stickled sea sponge. <br /> <br />Your dreamy portals were greased <br />all afternoon by blowflies fresh from sheep— <br /> <br />or sleep. I meant to say your sleep gave you <br />hours of swaddlings, <br /> <br />narcotics, <br />interruptions.<br /><br />Lee Upton<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/interrupting-an-addict/
