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Posted by on Jul 25, 2014 in Poetry | 2 comments

NETFLIX

NETFLIX

Seven seasons in seven days
A child grows to hulking man,
As abed I bathe in opiated waves
Remote control in hand.

Bad becomes good when pressed
Into a wine and wafer of time
That slips in easily between breaths
And the ding, ding of the wind chime.

Perhaps from Becoming I am divorced
And arrive in the land of tir na nOg
On the golden saddle of a silver horse.
I gaze back at a sea lapped in fog.
Dim are the dying faces
The changing channel erases.

2 Comments

  1. Thank you! It loves you.

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