Argos

Stomach, the pit
of a furnace,
empty like Queen
Mab’s hazelnut.

No food.
No sleep.

Life is such a short leash.

You have such a short
leash on me.

I retract.
I retract.
I lock.

Like a dog,
Stray Dog Freedom,
Conor.

Running into the streets
like a splash of red
on a white canvas,

I drip into lost freedom.
No structure might
be the worst meaning
of life.

The cage keeps me
grounded—
keeps me from
ascending to nowhere.

God, cage me again.

I have rattled free—
fallen from bureau
to ground, smacked
wooden reality
with my lust.