THIS IS A POEM ABOUT LURID THIRST AND KNUCKLES THAT DIG INTO THE HEART 11.2.17

11.2.17

It begins as a pain
two finger lengths
below the top of
the forehead. Then it
spreads down behind
the ears and tightens
across the chest like
knuckles digging into
the heart. It is worst
at four in the morning,
when either sober or
not, I wake in a lurid thirst
for water, or not, or perhaps
for something more.
In the morning its residue
survives, clings
like gunk to the lining of
the skull. I have reached
a place beyond clear thinking.
Welcome to the rusted dream
of dependence on things that
slowly destroy the body.

 


Written at 7:29 at night, in my office, in Agoura Hills CA.

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