HERE I SIT

Stranded, sculpting raptures, here sit I.
The electric stench of my excitement, crackling, shrieking,
Burrowing through my levity like roadkill.
Birds' songs fling my offal hither and yon.
What does your letter say by not coming?
What bitter taste of nothing food?
Because of this thing!
Because of this thing!
Because of this thing!

SCA 1996