scribbled it down
and when I came back from work, tired, tired of being
awake, I propped myself up,
read it back and it seemed to have something that couldn't
stand alone.
I tried to help it, tried to staple on some legs:
____________
"hardened as horses of an unknown race
I am the hinge upon which the mirror swings
strange that the center should be on the outside after
all
in the silence where their image stops"...
____________
and that's as far as I got. I abandoned it, let it gallop
off
not interesting enough to really finish
lay me down to dream again, leaving me in its dust, to
the dust of its
awful,
imperfect
escape.