Words from 2002

what becomes of a blue line
that you've been breathing
for centuries? from ablution
of brunette angles—you've dreamed this.
this tortuous kismet becoming ennui
turning a rubicund cheek; a mirage
of acrid clocks; garrulous fingers
through the door cracks; this moribund
illusion once a polymath and sparrow.
at the nadir, what becomes of blue line
that you've breathing for centuries;
from number 28, a wastrel, a sun born
facetiously in the white of each summer?