my throat—
and my
heart! about
switched places;
the morning
you left
early for work, and I
woke up
later and—still
in effete
reverie, gazing backward into
the silent
arid white
moonsurface
of my
mind—
found I could
still picture
your face
alright, but I
couldn't
will its
incomprehensible lips
to move any
longer;
no matter
how tight
my own
would
grimace,
or my profitless
eyes
would pucker.
So this—
was it
then—hell
frozen over.
The nightmare
scenario. The stark
ineffectual
spot—where all the poems
stop.
