Sometimes the only wind I can feel
is a howler churning inside me.
I lean to the left, then the right,
fall flattened to the floor.
It seems impossible
that nothing in this room
has been moved
by such a storm but it’s true.
It’s as still as a ghost
in here. Meanwhile I’m shaking,
shattering within. Every nerve
waving like grass,
blood white-capped and frothing,
so loud I can’t think,
can’t pull a single word out of my lungs,
yet you sit there and mouth the usual,
that one must suffer for art,
that this will be material
for me. All I can do
is breathe and try to lie low enough
to let the twister pass,
and you’re saying this. Believe me
when I say I don’t want the poem
that’s in here with me, friend;
I don’t want this poem
at all.
Dark Matter 