Another poem. This one started percolating when I took out the recycling this morning.
What are these strands
of food and sleep
that bind me to you
puppet earth?
I, this wooden boy
sleep walking
in the divine mystery
of the spirit night,
wish to wake
from this stage house dream.
Who calls to me
from the footlights?
Who sees me
the statue in the stone?
Is it my pinnochio father?
Or another?
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