pounded into peevishness, a dragged-out, wounded feeling
that in his complex heart of hearts is very slow in healing.
out here on his graveyard shift he senses that a break won't come …
shrugging off this stinging sense that he won't live to see one.
trying not to focus on oblivion so much, acting on his marching orders …
moving into skies above like a shimmering bumblebee,
his craft at last becoming more defiantly ascendant.
reaching worlds beyond the spheres with undeniable swagger,
the method of his message-making doth uncoil inchworm-like
and therefore hath not registered on academic radar.










© 1994-2009 KC wilder



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