this morning in the 
pantry our hearts were
bread stale
and our eyes 
were not wide opened
as they used to be
facing the sunrise window 
moon wheels revolve on your 
street market clock 
no longer counting red
tides or blue
when you'd slam a 
door the second time
slam to be heard 
and walk into a cloud 
of fire just to punt and
stir the flame
you understand 
in a language built of
deadened monosyllables 
gracelessly 
swallowed down 
with analgesics that our 
eyes are not wide 
opened as they used to be.



05 sep 01
M Madison