Stubble Burning

Just one more week, if I could
See this through, survive, outlast
The plot of harm to my self.

Just this week ahead to eradicate
The one thought-place I could not escape,
For seven hundred journeys hope was surpassed.

The promise of time like a plundered trove
In my hands, I can trace the dates
And diadems, unburnished on its surface.

A progress of letters, a thunderless storm,
All that potential, in kernels of time
Stored like dreams in hibanatory forms.

These nerves to be scratched from the hypodermis will flow,
The urge for receiving dreams is established;
A catch of haddock to the ocean’s returned.

Outside, it is that awful dawn again,
It yawns and with vast arms stretches.
To accept its contract I am forced, I forged

A signature which brings me a trawler, and fish for the prospect,
But no rest in rains, asleep standing up;
I met myself in that week ahead.

My mouth was empty, my stubble burnt,
The workers had gone and would never return;
We passed by each other without saying a word.

But a finished letter you pressed to my palm,
Paused dreams for a moment, I felt better restored,
As arms excavated to a statue returned

Caused a nation’s collective applause,
Somewhere the shrew and the bumblebee stirred;
I opened a window, to one week more.

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