it was hopeless:
though the aperture gaped
the room was large and
the daddy-long-legs helter-skeltered around
dithering gracelessly between neon and a way out
while only the way out beckoned me
striplights will always outbeacon a shiny nose
so I knew
as the soprano bludgeoned another nail
into the laundry box of poetry
that the longed-for alignment
of crane-fly and cake-hole
was about as likely
as a show of mercy.
© Paul Taylor 2002
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