huck

I Don't Want the Day


Throes of rote
in valleys dominated by the moon

Rote of throes
'cross plateaus condescended by the sun

(For a throat
the sibilance of pressure chimes again)

And then
epiphany
a simile: one's efforts to forget
are the course of the suicide fanatic
whose afterlife is shattered
in the blast

But it's a bane I can't
sweat out
through the morning after's pores - that I
don't want the day to end, and I
don't want it to begin