up before monday at dawn,
then back down again;
I go staggering up
my front stairs because
I want a drink on
the other side of that
door.
sitting down
heavily — noticing
veins in my arms,
highways, tracing
blue routes. closing
my eyes and wonder
at my fragility, my
trembling before
a universal end.
still, I’ve got work
to do here — this mind
isn’t going to lift itself.
I pour another cup of
something black-brown,
another gulp;
I drink before I bend to it.
something inside me
refuses to die
until I’ve reached an
arbitrary point and
I’m not there yet,
although I’m close enough
to feel it sigh like a banshee
and then go back into hiding.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
onward,
T
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