The way I’m sitting,
the bowl being off-centre on the table.
The bladder- it’s always half full, half empty,
half full, I forget.
The cat’s whiskers being glorious,
the water boiling,
the long dust of drafting all this on the keys again.
The tingles on my back,
the unwatered plant- it looks like a wretched desert,
the dry patch on the back of my throat,
the water being too hot.
The preoccupation with how often I urinate,
the post-urination chill up the spine.
The palm trees against the pale pink sky being too good to not photograph-
being too cliche to photograph, on the other hand.
How the page absorbs ink making blotches marking my hesitations.
The loneliness flickering in the light bulbs of the four a.m. train,
and the racket that it makes.
The situation of the world in general. A distant, worn out panic.
The horror of five a.m. and them waking up, to this, to make this.
This whole thing of being.
Anything, something, to look away from this thing-
this thing I don’t interrogate for honest words, this thing I don’t want to see.
The fear of me,