The Smoking Flax

Here beneath the fleeting sky, orange and close,
    My coffee-spoon existence flies
    Through the darkness, down a stream of shimmer grey.
    The yellow line, now on, now off, beats my waiting heart—
    The one in my throat.

Battles on the island mind wax and wane,
    With strangers dressed to play the part
    Of paraclyte, conscience and the hostage held.
    The hallway clock, now tick, now tock, strikes the fatal cut,
    Thrusts the time-worn blade.

Beyond I hear the sirens wail, phantoms cry,
    As deep within emotions fail
    And morning’s certain tastes like midnight’s tear.
    The sun is set, now gray, now black, shadows fill the eve
    Save the smoking flax.