In these day of spartan dreams, should I
let myself be coaxed to simulated
death by the stinginess of my over-
in this time of mortal fears, shall I
lay myself down like a lamb
on the slaughterhouse threshold
with little more than a plaintive
bleat to register my dis-
content with the way things are?
that moment when the moon comes full
above the treeline
and October madmen set matches to tawny waving fields scheduled
to be high-weed-mowed on the morrow, can I
muster no resounding resolve
and stifle the wildfire playing havoc
with my soul?
still the mind and spare
turn and run for the hills,
and dig up a long-wide fire-
every half mile or so.
Get some sleep.