Ode to the Comma

Two hills away from a coma, 
you are the half-drunk fugue
dividing thought, the sweet aroma 
of the lily and its rouge
ruining a shirt. At introduction 
I thought you were German —
I saw so much order and destruction 
in you. Now, little surgeon
of breath, I am trying to temper you —
why do you need to wander off.
You are a sleepwalker, you
mutter nonsense; you are the silhouette 
of a small ship in the troughs
of waves: you list and list and list.