We notice ordinary things like flower pots <br />filled with sighs and closets dripping <br />monsters. Is it time yet to depart <br />from the cloistered probability <br />that our study of cognac has yielded no <br />transparencies other than what we <br />imagined? Here in the future our <br />wings are mere footnotes <br />ancanthus medallion, ribbon of sky, <br />facts smile from posterior gardens. <br />There is a spy called wonder who watches our <br />habits. There is a virtue to the geometry of <br />sleep for a friend is a ruddered thing requiring <br />citations and phosphorescent rooms.<br /><br />Larry Sawyer<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/dancing-off-the-edges-of-our-lives/
