In Not Unpleasant Places

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IN NOT UNPLEASANT PLACES


Dare we say blesséd is the fenced 

dog who never knows an open gate,


the freight train rusting on the unswitched

track, groaning forward now,


now back? How late are we really running 

if the clocks have never been wound?


Is lost lost if we've misplaced

found? Sure, the house still burns down 


if we call smoke sleep-eye and pretend

it was a dream, but on the flip side


of the pillow if we were awake enough to see 

coolly through the steam to what's really


licking at our door, who could even make

the bed, rouse themselves to uncradle


a single word having sipped

the frothy draught of what ought to be said? 

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