Gnawing—I suspect
a good bit
more
intently
than I meant—on the scrawny thin
pith of a toothpick
in my kitchen—alone
I supposed
until presently visited
by this—situationless feeling;
of first each
and then every
teeming gland
beginning to itch
up and down—howling
ululating twitching—until
a billion bloody vessels dilating
pulsing—then squeezing
tighter
to strangle
tiny drops
of salty water—
out of both corners
of my two big ugly mock eyeballs bugging-
out over
hot nostrils
now bawling after
whatever—
incredible disaster
is fermenting
away—over there
in a fruitfly feted
crock in the pale corner.
