Ben Doyle


Single Vision & Newton's Sleep - Poem by Ben Doyle

Lick the lights. Everyone
says that here. Sometimes
they'll call a spade a shovel,
hollowing half a hole,
which is all I have to sleep inside.


There's one


arboretum running
underground from near here
to Verisimilitude City.
I measure the macrocosm
with miles of mint string. Flossing


the dunning


skins from the incisors of the air.
The apples in our demi-dreams
drag themselves from the dirt
and into the indigo atmosphere.
Prime Mover, sleep. In the shade


ensnared.


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Read poems about / on: running, sleep, city, sometimes, dream



Poem Submitted: Monday, January 20, 2003



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