Late
Sonja Dahl
My pen seems to be moving
But thers nothing on the page.
My vision blurs misty
With the night delerium
Of yes and no,
And the hard green plastic
Of my desk chair
I think I';m losing feeling in my right big toe
And the fish on my mug
Are beginning to swim.
Across the imitation wood finish
Of my desk
While the glowing face of the computer
Hums soft lullabies
To my sleepy eyelids
And soapy colors swirl on the edge
Of consciousness-
Bubbles that pop suddenly
Leave me swaying
On green plastic
Leaving me with scribbles
Like hieroglyphs
On white paper.
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