You starve a British rock
no continent brave enough
for your praise.
When that sun was looming
that early morning river bridge
you hung
in tough comforters. You
had water glasses
cough for you.
There is no blancher, face-down man
surer-of-matters, carpet-father,
vidja dweller.
Yours, a bathroom mirror
emaciated because time.
Because time dresses lightly
but with sterling intentions.
Yours is a way through,
or yours might as well be
a staple on the floor singing an organized blues,
sun gazed on vending machine light hue.
