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.