Parched Lines
    by Douglas Gilbert

I fall between two last rain drops with a cold
nose bleeding between the red lines of a desert;
it’s difficult to read between the lines
while thought hungry, but

I will feed a fever a task
from the tip of my tongue
to the stomach of the unconscious,
and try to hitch a ride in a dream.

I will hitch a dream limbo limo
powered by an insight that
will sneeze the ride forward.

I will try the ethereal soup
with a soupçon of magic
and inhale the fumes
between the last twin drops

and cherish the remains
of the tear-drop brew in
a cauldron of forgotten lines.


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