Vein

Watching it throb,
hidden machinery
and all the impulse
it invents —

among the night noises,
wonder,
who is this eye,
which does all the seeing?

And is a waking
even possible?
Or is it a dream
and just this:

pretty colors
mixed in jars
and spilt
along veins and nerves —

as deep
and as empty
as a sky
full of stars?

Go ahead
and pretend to free will,
knowing the id’s out
far, far ahead:

a blind captain,
one hand on a wheel,
the other clasped
’round a poisoned cup,

riding high
upon a storm-drunk sea.
All our all
is to keep the lamp burning —

and hope
that through luck
he might steer the thing
safely to port.

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About Emily

I may or may not have: A. Dirt B. Ink C. Paint D. Wool under my fingernails.

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