A Time Is Gonna Come, Again

Scraping ice from the back of my mind, 

Licking chapped lips, now, 

Salting the silvery walkways, now, 

And thinking of the past.

Oh, what about the future?

Those days soon to come,

Drowned out and clinging together, 

Just like miserable slush, 

We altogether remain covered up, 

By fleeces, 

And by unnatural polyester blankets.

How about

The days thereafter, 

When I begin to feel my toes again, 

The extraneous points of so many limbs, 

Both real and phantom, 

Flaccid and red with rigidity. 

Or what about when

I have to close my eyes against salt, 

Brush my teeth because

The taste of coconut has become too much, 

Untangle from between my teeth,

These knotted twines shed, 

Unwisely, it might be said, 

From hardened meat. 

Slick and pacific, 

Some beach’s warm tide, 

Will slip along my lap, 



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