impossible tired, marks along

the winding trailing off, now called home

the thin, precarious hairpin bend

the two-steps back for one ahead

the id hazard, a guess: all's not well

the turbulent coast, waves on a rising swell

as the sun in her smart histrionic display

coaxes the night and politely coquets

but from my reared view now

I am still: that child,

alone at the sea-

saw: for miles,

just me

sat with a sickly sense of sweet

that won't last: like ice cream

melting too fast

and a head:

bounded by sallow fodder

bound for fallow sod or

sweat desert cones with powder tops

a confection white, a salt lake shore

and by Convection's might,

nothing more

but if Convention's right,

I'll find Out soon

(or else I'll get what is in store)

and I'll pay the price

for the ill I've done

and then settle down

for a while

but this engine runs

on hubris and speed

and I take no wrong turns

too carefully

and this engine runs

on ennui and greed

and I don't change course

graciously