While Writing

    Someone inside says， "Get busy."

    But I've got appointments to keep，

    I have an abstemious love of equations calculated quickly

    While the tepid day melts into design.

    And the high cheekbones of the beautiful life

    Bear the loose look of a calendar by lamplight.

    I search for patterns in everything.

    I am tied in knots of comprehension.

    I think， how useful it might be

    To pierce all the hands of the earth

    With an oath of pins encircling snarling planets

    But talent and shallowness sewn together

    Is nothing but a kerchief tied around a survivalist's head，

    And it helps to know the feet wriggling through a hole

    In the universe will land for an instant

    Upon the cushions of the dark，

    And that after marching one doozy of a kilometer after another，

    We each come upon the same poem scribbled in invisible ink

    Taped to the door of a room

    In which an austere justice is burning for us.