Too little sleep or food and too much lust,
and yet again too many cigarettes,
upset the balance, crackle through the crust,
and guide me to fantastic parapets
where I unsteady witness shifting scenes
as shafts of insight pierce the foggy murk
and let it close again on what it means,
and lure me to distraction from my work.

Rapunzel balances without her wall,
without her never golden rope of hair,
and glimpses an approacher, slouching, tall,
and can’t believe he’d have the nerve to dare
the polished height and tower of her time,
except this hero dearly loves a climb.