Damn that which holds itself accountable 
in my error— if I could escape I’d
sing, freely sing, but alas can’t. Rarely 
does time tick for me. Low saxophone wails
from the wine cellars, the unzipped tent in
the meadow wet with evening dew. Tripped up
and spit out, floundering like a struck fish
under Dunedin flashlight. I am Plath
without the oven. The bread I bake looks
back at me, eyes of mirrors, faulted ever
flawed, casting securely in rinds of iron

wrist watches and gold plaited arguments. 
I’ve been right before. I have been happy. 


Rozell, 2022.

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s

%d bloggers like this: