trying like
hell to figure out
why my lips and the
tips of my fingers and
toes—are always
going numb and tingling
with cold.
Turns out, I've been frozen
for years now in the same lunatic mode
of trying to make
my whole day into a poem;
rich with its evocoative mix
of sensual rituals,
featuring loads of repetition and
my whole day into a poem;
rich with its evocoative mix
of sensual rituals,
featuring loads of repetition and
paying too much attention,
each step heralding some auspicious
new place.
In each hand,
a uniquely
unbearable perspective grasped. And
every last
breath, a wild incantation. But goddamn—
how perfect-
ly pitifully translated
here
at the
end of every evening, into mere
words
at my own overwhelmingly dull—
and yet still unspeakable—
peril.