Monarch

 

 

You are a bubble

of rubles

or any

colored monies

 

you

also sleep

in

your curiosity

you think

a goal

is

from across the corner

of the universe

a room roped off
you gasp

to cross it
to immolate yourself

in a constitution

of old moving light

invoking names

from the
ancient towns

youve never slept in

 

desperate to reach you

as a complete complicated

picture of yourself (you think)

 

but then
that
large

field

moon

you always

find

so
troubling


in how many lives
have you tried to cut it out in

 

and then put it back

into some grateful enemies life



now annoyingly (announcing)

your new caretaker


in the dead of

city noon

 

maybe you

finally

have disappeared (disappointingly)

into what

you secretly

have never left

a harbor of air

reflecting each face

you refuse to remember

 

his hand under your elbow

 

a gaze swimming

a swarm

 

 

 

 

 

George J. Farrah