Too Late to Tell

might sleep come
if the dawn be dark
dark as the interior of a tomb
too full
to dream or play with my mind?

what of the rind
of watermelon pink
to sink
deep into an abyss
of one’s own making
waking only to
the call
of something beyond
the wall
around my dwelling place.

what face
might I see
if you’re looking at me
when I cease to dream
or ponder
something
outside my realm?

what helm
would I stand behind
what would
I find
given a moment
to flail
outside the pail
of a captured
fish’s tail
what tale
would spell my fate?

©May 9, 2004