(Refine the un-refineable?)
Why is it always in the bookish dank of my room?
Why can't I see the immeasurable oblivion that shattered the glass jar of this man's soul?
There was thirst, hunger, death, (fruit)
Every second felt like a life-age of us, like the pecking of a bird to the brain of a man, or shelled imposter of a once thought..."man"
A soured soul
The debris he calls his harvest
Lay limp in Larry's lap
I idle, I idle
That bitten mouth can still kiss
Pale and blind, nothing new, not to the carrier
Not to this space
His hands were twisted like shadows
He fathered his everything
He mothered his nothingness
Impervious I bided, at the service of the the service-less
Standing like the skipper in the prow of this emptied vessel
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