blocks built of fog and filthy
cold vapor—stretch-
out before your body's
tottering gait,
confounding the repeated
attempts
its stubborn feet keep
making, to get
its hands in
possession of pen
and paper,
or to stick
its dumb face
in front of a screen somewhere.
But when at
last, its legs succeed
in the latter
endeavor, some terrible
passion—gathering, so much
like the blurry
weather, behind its wet
eyes—can sense
the keys
of a frail home
computer
craving to shrink
away and recede, under-
neath
each obscure and dangling
finger, the nearer and
nearer it comes—
to putting
pressure upon
those little black
squares which might
be most representative—
of what the
truth
of its
own, personal
experience out there—really was.