Delilah Den

Sharp sounds or socks, the calls of morning birds
fever enriched meditations inside the bubble of my thoughts
the voices of robust instruments plead their cases
settled into their jurist’s box, white wigged, long sleeved
sipping tea, spouting erudition in complexities,
a jargon plexi-glass bending to scratch, a shape
foundling standing on new legs, teetering like
a stone too heavy for the balance, the meagerest
buzz of a razor to cheek, sheared like Sampson
in his Delilah den.

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