scribblings

The Witching Hour

As the night thickens
My thoughts come heavy as mud
I wade for morning

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Sixteen.

The shape of my future will be wide and brilliant

I will sail a boat into the blazing sunset

I’ll knock coconuts from the tops of tropical trees

There will be a possibility with my name on it

I’ll find that secret place where trains sleep

and run like a madman along the tracks

follow all the lost balloons into space

I’ll fall in love

and break his heart

There’ll be no redemption for such acts of extravagance

No ponderable punishment for such deeds

I’ll be a connoisseur, a cognizant, a conspirator, conjurer and the closing act

This I’ll do

tomorrow and tomorrow’s tomorrow and tomorrow upon tomorrow upon tomorrow

until my days run together in one blinding streak of light

until I’m top o’ the world

breathing the stratosphere

toes can’t touch the bottom

I’ll reach up and scratch my name on the sky with a piece of chalk

This I’ll make

the vast and splendid shape of my future

I’ll not grow old.