By Thomas Page
I can’t seem to truly relax
Like sink deeply into an armchair and ponder tea cookies relaxed
Because of the access I have to everything I have to do
Like a white rabbit burdened with a pocket watch
Always late for something and early for nothing
The muscles in my neck
Tenses like game grabbed by the hunter
In a cacophony of hounds
Flooding a tunnel in the dirt.
Something always due like a castlebound arrow
Making the archer curse hamartia
And pull another from the quiver
With the same urgency as a wall falling
In some defeated’s future
That no matter what the wall has fallen down
Awash in the tide of a now-new-named sea
Which seemed tranquil as neptuned head
Before breaching a stormy sea
To part it for a moment
And fly like the albatross above a pacific body
