Fred Aiken Writing

living in a manifest destination on the right,

so long the map spots the next turn

into the cul-de-sac,

pulled back, further,

seething fog engulfing all the windows

in an endless night,

sleepless fights, punched into memories from above,

below, each side, and wherever that sound is coming from,

let’s not dally,

let’s not dilly,

time to catch the moment in bed without an answer for its infidelity