The Mortgaging of Self Is Done

And the floors dreaming in wide,
drowned light. The drifting and bobbling,

nodding you off in another direction,
broken sideways, sideways

broken. Farther. Father. And the staff
of good intentions that sprouts leaves,

feathers, the formal calm that surprises,
gauze outflung and laid.

The miner that comes with a light, knees,
questions, gunpowder. The stifling,

the unbinding. Moral, normal, matted,
matched. The pelt of suffering,

hung in its usual place.

Copyright © 2006 Aimée Sands All rights reserved
from Beloit Poetry Journal
Reprinted by Verse Daily® with permission