and shriveled
and useless
as an apple's
mealy core—
you decide,
in that moment,
to capitulate
and just retire—
to rest,
out of sight, someplace dark
for a while—
hoping to shore up
all the scraps of whatever
substance might be left
and condense them
into an eventual
(if reluctant) reemergence
at such time as
you can manage, however slow
and testilty,
to admit that,
while you still don't
feel great,
you're now at least
once again
reasonably sure
you feel present
and accounted for,
and extant, here and now,
and every bit as necessary
as an apple's
mealy core.