A man folds himself
into a bass drum
and rolls down a hill. 

He expects to die 
and does not. Instead,
he emerges rhythmically
into battered new life
once he stops, bruised
and deafened, in
a broad valley.

There is a village 
not far away, its chimneys
smoking as if this were
The Home of
The Fairytale Ending.
He begins to walk toward it.

Waking up today
from this. Paradise, he thinks.

Last night instead of this
he was at
his childhood drive-in seafood place.
A tumble of bad actors
from his whole life till now
poured out of
a rusted white Cadillac
parked in front
to jeer him as he ordered
fish and chips
for his whole family
just like every Friday before.

Woke up
from that yesterday.
Damnation, he thinks.

It is
not yet dawn.
Knowing that nothing
in daylight can either
delight or terrify him,
he goes forward
as a blank from here
with no rhythm left,
no vision of future;
no taste for what is passed
and gone; waiting
for night and what 
that may bring. Hoping
for nothing. Praying
for sleep without dreams.