To Be Awakened
Write in a cradle of luxury:
And wait for the traffic to pass by like
Beautiful lures
And housewives in their mouths:
Now I do not know which way I am going—
The concrete is so singular—
Airplanes touch-down maybe fifty feet
Away from me—
It is the year of the dragon, and she is my wife
As the angels fly into her,
Burning themselves—wishing to be freed,
As her hair darkens
Until it is finally time to be awakened.
poem by Bret R. Crabrooke
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