The Old Man is Snoring

March 26, 2018

“Blow, winds, and crack your cheeks! Rage, blow!

            You cataracts and hurricanoes...”

Lear's mind turns to water,

            a lone drop gathering courage,

for a suicide leap

            from the edge of heaven.

A perfect crystal screaming

            towards the patchwork,

growing squalid with each tumble

            through the cotton ball sky.

To crash violently on the sidewalk,

            painting a circle of darker gray.

A mirror of clear blood,

            pores soused,

to the heart of the stone. Desperate

            brothers and sisters jump

after by dozens,

            then thousands,

keeping the stairs wet until morning.

            Why flee heaven so quickly?

Are the harps out of tune?

            Are the stories of angels so dull?
The fool sings an answer:


“He that has and a little tiny wit—

            With heigh-ho, the wind and the rain—

Must make content with his fortunes fit,

            For the rain it raineth every day.”



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