Sell Myself

sell my poetry.  I’m

uncertain as to what
the order is.

Though in every word
an escape appears
and running is imperative.

As is a twilight sky and
morning an awkward snail
creeping down the rising.

This dichotomy between
the edges persists like
clouds and sidewalks

populating the inner eye
with half-formed thoughts
which wander.  In strange

Lands they sit and spy

upon each curvature
of the human word

each space between what

was meant to be
and what remains

tailings of a conversation

consumed like draught
like local wine

like every tale carried 

home in a crumpled
photograph from
where you were

a memory rearranged
like the bed in which
you dreamed.