Saturday, April 16, 2022

Hypomania

I glimpse my frayed tether in a friend’s face—
I’m losing time, but the clock's hands are not 
yet amputated. I attempt escape
into everyday faces and side-street 
 
bars, get lonely cornered and whiskey grinned.
I’m getting thin. Months collapse disordered.
My celestial sunrise writing, winged
and away, lifts me out of endless days.
 
I’m untethered and confound family.
“A prophet is not without honor, save 
in his own country, and in his own house.”
Outside of time, how can one not be brave?


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