11-01-2008 The once and future slacker

It does not matter where you flee, my lord.
behind a stone, upon the highest tree
across the misty moors and past the sea
to Avalon. She’d come where devils ford
infernal streams to make you dull your sword
to cut brocaded bolts of silk so she
can fashion drapes. So do not rapidly
forsake the comfort that a couch affords.

For lo, the game may not be lost. Her skill
lies in pursuit, not in remembering
the reason that she roars. Ravenous suns
have long set on her brow, gorging their fill
of memory. Between these ravagings
claim that her lost demands have long been done.