At midnight we make noise to distract
The demons who, it's said, wait to destroy
The new year. I know demons but've never
Asked what they plan to do if they succeed.
There are rumors, though, of a machine
Made of paper, spit, steel and cobwebs
With great gaps in it so that instead of
The riverine existence we have now we'd
Learn to jump between instants. Dreams
Left behind might wait for our return
Or go their way or see what was new
Among the realmless dead.
No comments:
Post a Comment