Confessions of a Lotus Eater

    It began in sickness, a delirium,
    But it took root, snaked its leprous vine,
    In ritual, in careful preparation.
    I’d always desired to be a farmer,
    And I at last found a use for my hands.

    The mind is a closed and shuttered home,
    Ever-cloistered in its ever-inadequate walls,
    Unable and unwilling to open a window
    For fear of that compounding creak
    And plume of dust, disturbed.
    Our mind becomes all minds-
    A compulsion, a creeping fog.

    It performs its secret ministry,
    It davens and sways and bends.
    I forget myself, delirious, and when I awake
    I feel the remnants of a powerful nausea,
    The sense of a poison tincture
    Clinging to the skin of my veins.
    A film of ash clutches a fence spike,
    And I can’t help but see myself in its eyes,
    Always in that bleary winter light.
    Poison, Poison, Poison.

    But my hands take to the work naturally,
    With a foreign relish. I forget myself.
    The moon bathes in a stream,
    The streetlights tie together,
    Light in light in light,
    The constellations speak freely
    To the speckled spokes of a wheat field.
    The quiet Earth revolves quietly.
    I forget myself, how wonderful.


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