Saturday, November 1, 2014


Awake another night I am, your news 
sitting on my bedside--obese, ulcered, stinking 
until the wee hours, the first light of another
day of fright, pressing down on this 
mattress like a four-wheeler--tossing me 
from my own bed. Your news cloaks the
room, my limbs, my dreams, all day
my eyeballs burn as if they'd been soaked 
all night in vinegar and it’s not over yet, 
your news will trap for sure more nights 
between my sight and thought, 
between the dusk and dusk again.