Sedentary Soul

 

A traveling writer, on an eye in the London sky, writes a sonnet

In Japan, writhing tentacles with the rice spirits, writes haikus despite syllabic impairment

If struck with awe or Pandean medley, he could sing epics

 

But instead,

With a butterfly knife, he spreads himself thin over the burnt toast of word’s meaningless bones

And splits a cigarette with a stranger when too tired for such dreams of dreaming for long

 

Published at RAW