Sliver

I walked on a sliver of horizon

in ribbed tube socks.  Those shredded clouds followed,

a trail of heaven’s lint.

Heel toe.Heel toe. Building that

                                    static.

Crowds watched me, with fresh lacquered eyes.

She can’t do it.

She’ll surely die.

My socks unravel on the crest of the

       moon.

 Mortal strands are a tangled

                                                   web.

The poet’s soul is dead on arrival.

Passionate to the point of

                                                asphyxiation.