Ceiling now in staring anguish,
once the eyes I found and lost;
last few moments, caught myself
and wound my winding sheet about it.
Words are not the thing for speaking:
truth, in little hardened bitters,
shows itself as one with hopeless
causes, self-aversion dramas,
Lysistratic coffee conscience.
Why when said it natural felt
the need to press and fold?
Enfolded leipedoptera means
no beauty, pins and needles.
I hate this feeling, wanting
knowing nothing offered is worth taking; yet
submittal, anything for just two fleeting
words, both of contradiction.
Given it is gone, and yet while nothing
hurts its purpose, still expect
you’ll never see what pain is
in the place where you are not.
1993
