shot glass
"... brevity is the soul of wit ..."
- William Shakespeare

Michael Milligan



there goes
The green unraveller,
His scissors oiled, his knife hung loose
Dylan Thomas

Me, I'm whoever. Reeling in my dimness.
The sea surface a splendored mirror
I fell into. Down, down, down.
Besieged in our ocean trenches
whoever we want to be depends on uncertainties.
On perspective.

Sirens called, it was a week ago now,
leaning wrong letters into wrong wind – I missed
that song— but who attends to recitations
by near strangers? Do you? I submerge my own wishes
far too deep even for rapture. Fishing lines above
drip with light. Better your sweet heart overcome
than lost in the drowned hall I walk
when memory begins its green unraveling.