(Spill-O's Easychair in the Lotus)
It made the hour that every hour stares through
unfold itself sensibly, surely.
It was a damned marshy predicament
he’d gotten himself into.
The jump into nothingness
and the jump into everythingness
were not as advertised.
After years trying to cut the rope in his throat
so the easy chair in his chest could blossom,
Spill-O doesn’t know how he does it.
But he leans back
and the easy chair in the lotus unfolds
to catch his cringing injury of a body.
And the small centuries finally
run through him unimpeded.
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