Sink It

Is everything we do foregone?

Can we instigate the dawn

of something new? It doesn’t

matter, really, probably: we’ll

do the things we do; waffle

‘round the way we’re waffling

‘round right now -- and let

the quiet wow of slow-diffusing

hues imbue us: till we notice

we are colorful. We’re the mother

full of milk; we’re the renegades

who drink it. If we want to think

a thing, more than likely we will

think it. Meanwhile, fill the tub

and take this poem there:

and sink it.






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