Sleeping in.

There’s a crack in the paint in the ceiling.

      Its veiny finger routes out a distance between me and the light.

A jagged curve snaking its way across the pure

    white absoluteness of architectured anatomy.

My eyes are spent.

SO I close them-

     and continue the mapping elsewhere.

I don’t like cracks in paint.

These four walls and their family of brick

 stand strong at each other with mindful twist towards the change of day.

I hang pictures on them and tell them not to move.

Please.

Charged with a raging passion to conceive the formless void of idea I lie beside

 my corpse

 and open my eyes

again to see not the crack in the paint

but the course of a dry a riverbed leading into

 the deserted mist of

boredom.