letting go of what can't be held
Walk through the dead hours of morning. I purchase what I need to prevent another day. I put my body back in the room. The music all sounds the same. I turn off the light. The darkness has a pattern. And the room falls away. I am so tired of what I've done to myself. And I'm not done doing it. I take pills and test my veins. Spiders spin a fluid. I drink that, too. I bow my head and submit myself to the silver light of undoing. The biggest novels have no handrails. And the brightest poems are unshaded. And I fall deeper than sleep, rubbing my cock and watching an Asian woman undressing in an uncurtained window across the long-lost way.