This is not what I hired-on for; surely there has been a mistake, an error in reasoning and logic. I don’t know how much longer I can live in this state of penniless, this indigence, this alms-beggary. Hardship is distressing, a thirst that can be neither slaked nor coffined. I fear awakening each and every morn, the dread of another day in the trees looking for that precious fruit, a copper or a bronzed-nickel to keep my belly-teeming, lungs tucking, pain stayed and corrected. Sleep corrects all wrongs, even sleeplessness, so sleep I must, and quickly.
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About Me
- Stephen Rowntree
- "Poetry is the short-circuiting of meaning between words, the impetuous regeneration of primordial myth". Bruno Schulz
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