you wake up gasping
as if in your throat
lives a termite or beetle of some kind
and you’re trying to drown it out.
You stumble in the halfdark
and park yourself on the porcelain
and your bowels move like free trade
like slick winters, forceful and wet and
abundant, and as you’re being emptied out
with your palms pressing on your
eyeballs, a thought forms
in a point of tension
on the inside wall of your right
ocular cavity. The thought is always this:
what have i done.
Written at 10:26 at night, in my office, in Agoura Hills CA.